Withdrawal
by tapdancingapples
Summary: Sherlock would do almost anything to avoid boredom. The drugs were a perfect respite until he had to go through withdrawal. John thought meeting Mycroft was chance and doing regular check-ups on an addict would be good experience. Cue eventual Johnlock.
1. Prologue

Hello! I'm going to try my hand at a multi chaptered fic now. Please keep in mind that I'm open to ideas and constructive criticism is welcome. This is obviously my own take on Sherlock's drug problem with my own twist. Enjoy :) Beta'd by _gbheart_.

* * *

**_Withdrawal_ - **_Prologue_

* * *

The drugs had been the most gorgeous distraction from the utterly mundane things in life. All the inconsequential little matters ceased to exist, when his mind reached that peak - that seductive high - and raced through everything that he felt had purpose. It was by no means peace and serenity but rather pure rapture, in the form of just being able to _think_, and not having to pay mind to the static of every other meaningless entity.

It had been the most perfect solution to the most constant underlying problem: boredom.

Boredom meant that there was nothing to focus his intelligence on. The trivial and irrelevant things began to matter, and the psychoanalysis of petty things, like emotions and actions, came to the front of his mind.

Boredom was by far one of the most human things his mind and body could submit to. Boredom meant he felt the need to bring more attention to himself, in any way he could, just for a measly distraction. He would sulk like a child, just so that someone would complain, and he would make meaningless experiments that smelt rather harsh, so that someone would ask what on earth he was doing.

The smallest twinge of a needle led to the most pure and unadulterated rush.

He liked to think that it wasn't the chemical composition of the drugs that held power over him, but rather the power of thinking that it gave him. It wasn't a dependency to be constantly under the influence, but a fear that if he stopped, and the boredom set in, he would do something bad. Life around him would slow to a terrible drone, while he would remain racing ahead, unable to stop, and tearing his mind to shreds.

Donovan said that one day he would become bored, and the only solution to that intense boredom would be through killing.

He'd dreamt about that once. A kiss of steel against an exposed throat, the way the metal would slit through the skin – so _easy_ – and that he'd have to apply more pressure to pass through their windpipe, before finally, with all the force he could muster, their spine. Blood would flow freely, and the art of making sure the evidence would never trace back to him would captivate him.

Killing would likely become boring, one day, but using all of his intellect to make sure that the evidence would lead somewhere completely different? That seemed almost... _fun_.

People were fragile. It really was only meat and bone, in the end.

He'd tried sex, but people were too willing to commit, to ask for more than he gave, and form petty attachments that he had no interest in. The adrenaline had been perfect, but there was only so much his body could take, before physical limitations set in. Food and sleep really were tedious, disruptive, and an ever present need. The cases Lestrade had given him were a perfect relief. He was solving the murders rather than committing them; two completely different ends of a scale that were balancing out in tandem.

The cases were perfect, until the criminals of London decided to take a well-deserved break, rest their feet, have about fifty cups of tea, and then proceed to gossip about their future heists.

As soon as the cases stopped, the boredom set in, and he felt his mind do something terrible.

Cigarettes were his last resort. They were easy to access, fairly inexpensive and even socially acceptable.

In other words, they were boring.

Drugs had never been factored into the equation but, _God,_ they worked. Cocaine had quickly become his favourite. Injecting the drug was simple and effective – an almost automatic burst of awareness. The drug's effects would pass, often within a 38-44 minute time bracket for him, but that was often just long enough to run himself down and into a blissful sleep.

It was so easy to do. He had no social circle to come knocking with concern, and the 'colleagues' he worked with at the Yard certainly didn't care.

It had been seven months since he and Mycroft had spoken, but, _of course_, his brother's internal social clock decided to visit him just after he'd finished shooting up.

That had been the end of his bliss.

Rehab was the most realistic depiction of hell on earth that he had ever been forced through. There were too many people, too many little things to focus on, and nothing to distract him. They followed a strict schedule and shoved information about cocaine down his throat, as if the knowledge would stop him from eternally craving it.

He was smarter than every idiotic person in there, and yet he had chosen drugs.

Mycroft kept it all in check: the bills, the crying nurse who had just had her marriage ended because of him, and the other addict who'd tried to swing a punch. Eventually, or three days in, he resigned and took Sherlock home for him to battle the addiction there. At Mycroft's home, he was given a room and a bathroom but nothing else. Meals were taken to him, as were his various forms of entertainment: books and minor cases.

It was a little less than a month, until he was allowed to explore the rest of the house. Mycroft was careful to have him constantly supervised, lest he get his hands on the drug somewhere else. Another month passed before he was allowed back to his old flat, with the rent having been paid by Mycroft, during his absence, and he immersed himself in anything and everything that he could to distract himself.

His control slipped, exactly like it did last time. The lack of options forced him to the needle and, in turn, back into rehab.

This time, Mycroft didn't even bother to force him into one of their permanent facilities; he opened up the old room and forced him to stay. The only rule this time was that he had to attend weekly group meetings.

Once he was free, he told himself never again.

He was clean for four months, until his fear came back and the need for drugs with it.

He was in a new flat now. Four different walls watched him, as the needle slipped past his skin, and he shot up again. The effect was instantaneous; the shame a thing of the past. He took everything he needed and left the rest behind, not caring who found it and what they would do.

The air outside seemed fresher and more vibrant, as he tucked his hands into his coat pockets and faced the chilling wind head on. He set off down the street, knowing that, by morning, they'd have found him, which is exactly why he didn't bother to hide, this time, and the next bout of rehab would be on his to-do list.

* * *

**AN**: Might update today or tomorrow depending on the response (subtle blackmail mwahaha). I've got a few plot ideas in mind already but more are always welcome.


	2. Chapter 1

Sorry that this chapter didn't come out as quickly as I said. The formatting was an absolute bitch to do and then my eyes did something funny which my eyedrops didn't fix and I could barely see. Beta'd by the lovely _gbheart_ :)

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_**Chapter 1 -** Of Chance and Texting_

* * *

At the time, John had considered the meeting to be pure chance, simply an unprecedented turn of events that hadn't meant to affect him as much as it did but coincidently happened to wreak havoc upon his fairly simple life. Looking back now, he admitted that anything to do with Mycroft Holmes was never simply something as banal as chance.

He had been checking one of the drug rehabilitation clinics close to where he just happened to study medicine. He'd dealt with people with addictions before, including Harry and her _subtle_ love of alcohol, but he had never had anything to do with getting off drugs. Considering that he was well on his way to becoming a doctor, it seemed the logical choice to go and look around and grab some info from the people who actually worked there, rather than Googling it and finding a rather fishy looking website with a pop up porn ad on the side.

So far, the day at the clinic seemed fairly slow and quiet, and a few of the staff took the time out of their day to smile tiredly at him and engage in conversation about their work. Eventually, his luck ran out, and the woman he'd just been talking to for the last 25 minutes had to dash of with a shouted apology.

He stood there lost for a moment, and then decided to take his leave.

That was when Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade walked through the doors.

John, of course, had no idea who they were, although he was quite aware of what a peculiar image they struck. The one on the left was dressed in a smart-looking three-piece suit and was twirling an umbrella, as he almost swaggered into the place. Next to him, his companion looked rather bedraggled: tired eyes, simple clothes, but with a rather nice jacket over the top, and an expression of equal parts exasperation and desperation.

He was about to walk past them, when the swaggering man stopped him by barring his way with the umbrella. "Dr John Watson, I presume," he began smoothly. "The both of us have a proposition to make."

If the umbrella hadn't startled him, then having the man know his name certainly did.

"Uh, future doctor actually. Haven't finished my training yet." He said sheepishly.

The other man, who hadn't yet spoken, took a step forward and stretched out his hand. "My name's Greg, and this is Mycroft Holmes." John decided that he liked this man more, given the fact that he was acting a tad more normal about the entire situation. It was obvious that he considered himself less important than the man named Mycroft.

John smiled at the tired eyes, "I'd give you my name, but you seem to already know it, so I won't bother." They shook hands with small smiles. The humour had dissolved the tension between them, however, Mycroft was watching them with a certain air of superiority that ruined it.

Mycroft abruptly turned around and began walking away. Greg sighed and tilted his head in a manner that suggested that John should follow them. It seemed a stupid thing to do, but he was curious, and so he did.

They walked down an empty pathway, for a full minute, before, for seemingly no reason at all, they finally stopped.

"My younger brother is a slave to his cocaine addiction." Mycroft began, with an air of indifference. "We've already had him at a rehabilitation clinic once, much to his horror, but he has relapsed twice already. By the end of tonight, Lestrade here is likely to find him in one of his numerous hidey holes, still coming down from a high." As blank as Mycroft's expression was, his eyes certainly weren't. His faux coldness towards the situation was one John often adopted, when thinking of Harry. Her addiction was her own, but, nevertheless, he had spent far too many nights puzzling over how to help her.

John shuffled his feet. "I'm not exactly sure how I can help here; I've never dealt with something like that."

Mycroft tutted, "Oh no, you misunderstand me, doctor. This is the last time I'm allowing this to happen, and I intend for you to help him full term."

John gaped. A slick car pulled up beside them, and Mycroft eagerly opened the door to it. "Ah, Anthea," he said almost warmly, before turning back to them. "I'm afraid I'm rather busy, at the moment, but I have full confidence that Greg will explain everything."

They watched the car pull away with lost expressions, Greg's just a little more controlled and expectant.

"Why don't we discuss this over at the pub? It'll be easier."

* * *

The pub Greg took him to was the one he frequented often to find his sister. He was glad that, when they walked in, she wasn't on one of the barstools, creating a racket and sloshing beer down her front with an apologetic smile.

Once they sat down, with a pint in hand, Greg gave a weary sigh, before launching into a slightly more thorough explanation.

"Well, like Mycroft said, his younger brother, Sherlock, is on cocaine. It's been tough. You can tell he's trying to stop, but it just isn't working. At one point, he disappeared and we found him on the streets acting the part of a beggar." He seemed to smile with bitter amusement. "He's a brilliant kid – really, he is – it's just that this is taking over him."

Greg opened his mouth to say more but took a sip of beer, instead.

"How do you want me to help, though?" John asked.

Greg sighed mournfully. "We tried rehab a bit, for the first time, and it worked...well, we thought it did. When he relapsed, we forced him into one of those groups you go and talk to weekly. Made one of the workers cry within five minutes, I'm told." Greg broke off for another sip. The atmosphere seemed tense and sad. "He's been clean for a couple months now and has been throwing himself into anything to distract himself. Yesterday we found his… kit," he hissed the word with distaste, "in his room, mostly used. We confiscated it, but he's smart enough to take some of the stuff with him. Rehab obviously isn't the right way to go about this."

Partial understanding washed over him, and he tipped his own drink back thoughtfully. "Couldn't you just try another clinic? Shouldn't judge them all by one failed attempt."

Greg laughed bitterly again. "You'd have to meet him to understand. He's like his brother – smarter than everyone else around – but even more socially awkward, if you can believe it. He knows too much about people, and that makes him act like a complete smart arse around them. Not only that, but he's usually too proud to accept the help of others."

John frowned, and Greg panicked at the sight of it.

"Please consider this. I know it's too much to ask, especially with a kid like Sherlock, and considering you're finishing up your training soon, so it'll be difficult, but Mycroft really seems to think you're the right kinda guy for this."

"I –"

"_Please_. All we want is for someone to go there each day – someone with medical experience – and make sure he isn't doing something incredibly stupid. You'll be paid, and you'll get experience, but please, we really need help on this one."

And just like that, John caved in.

* * *

They discussed the situation a little longer, but the awkwardness of the whole ordeal eventually overwhelmed them, and they parted, after exchanging details and the promise that, as soon as they found Sherlock, he'd be texted the details.

To say he was confused was an understatement. He knew hardly anything about the man he was supposed to help get over a drug addiction, and it frustrated him. How was he meant to help someone who didn't want help, mostly hated people and most certainly would hate him?

It was madness, but Greg's brutal honesty about the entire situation made his mind up for him.

That and the fact that the pay per week was enough to have made him choke on his drink.

Once he made it back home, he pulled out the little leaflets from the clinic that detailed some of the withdrawal symptoms and set to work on researching cocaine.

* * *

John was, by nature, an early riser. While he didn't despise his friends, which he knew had an inability to wake early, he certainly did laugh when they appeared late to class. Only one of his mates rose early in the morning, and that was still half an hour later than him.

That was why, when he woke up at 6am and turned on his side, before blearily checking his phone to see if he had any messages, he was intensely confused to see that there were five new text messages awaiting him.

Three from Greg, which John assumed meant that they had found Sherlock, and two from a private number.

He opened the earliest one with a sense of trepidation. _Sent at almost two-am...Christ,_ he noted with surprise.

**(1:46am) (Gregory Lestrade) - **_Found  
Sherlock. He's okay but seems sorta confused.  
Dunno why._

**(2:01am) **_Back at his place now. I'll text you  
the address for tomorrow._

**(2:17am) **_221B Baker Street. The landlady is  
really nice. I think you'll like her. Mycroft's here  
taking care of things now. Guess I'm going._

**(3:00am) (Private number) - **_Good morning,  
doctor. I pray I haven't awoken you this fine  
morning. However, as it is concerning Sherlock,  
it is deemed rather relevant to you now._ _Later  
today, once you have finished your set training,  
a car will be sent to collect you and bring you here.  
From there, I will introduce you to my brother,  
who will undoubtedly insult you. Try to not to take  
it personally – it's his most used defence  
mechanism. -MH_

**(3:07am) (Private number) - **_Hello. Anthea  
here._ _Your mobile texting plan has been increased  
to cover the costs of Sherlock texting you._ _If you  
do not wish for this to continue, then simply block  
him from your contacts._

Sherlock texting him? As if on cue, his text alert went off.

**(6:05am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_So you're my  
new handler. -SH_

For some strange reason, John found himself almost grinning. From what he knew, Sherlock was well educated, which was more than likely to show through his texting; terrible at exerting proper social decorum; and a smart arse to boot. The prospects weren't promising, but, hopefully, if they could get to know each other a little over the phone before actually meeting, then it would be easier.

**(6:06am) (John Watson) - **_Should I bring a collar  
and leash?_

**(6:06am) (Sherlock Holmes) -**_I am perfectly  
capable of keeping_ _myself under control in a social_  
_setting. -SH_

He groaned. Fairly impervious to jokes then. Maybe add an emoticon to the end next time? At least he texted quickly.

**(6:08am) (John Watson) - **_We'll see._

**(6:09am)**_ Why do you sign everything as_ _"-SH"?  
I do have your caller ID._

**(6:10am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_If I'm ever in a  
dire situation, or my_ _phone is being used by  
another, then_ _the "-SH" is generally skipped (due  
__to_ _the __severity of the situation or because_ _whoever  
has the __phone is too much of_ _an idiot to realise that  
utilising __the English_ _language effectively and adding  
my __"signature" to the end may rather successfully  
__impersonate_ _me)._

_In its own way, it happens to be a sign that  
something is wrong. -SH_

John stared at the last text for a few moments, rereading it and trying to figure out how the hell to respond to that. It was logical, but why on earth did he feel the need to even have a plan like that?

**(6:10am) (John Watson) - **_That's concerning._

**(6:10am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_You're neither  
my handler nor my_ _mother. I suggest you stop  
making_ _it seem like you are. -SH_

**(6:11am) (John Watson) - **_You're just going to  
be a bunch of happiness and sunshine aren't you?_

**(6:11am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_No, I'm going to  
be a withdrawing cocaine addict who intensely  
dislikes you. Your sarcasm is rather unwelcome  
here. -SH_

He stared at the phone in dismay. God, this really was going to be difficult.

**(6:12am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Did I wake you  
up? -SH_

**(6:13am) (John Watson) - **_I was already awake._

**(6:13am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Shame, I'll text  
earlier next time. -SH_

**(6:14am) (John Watson) - **_I will legit buy a collar  
and leash before meeting you, if I have to._

**(6:15am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_I'll growl. -SH_

John read the message twice, before deciding that the answer was meant to be humorous, and he actually laughed.

**(6:16am) (John Watson) - **_Imagine explaining to  
your bro why I've got animal supplies and you're  
growling._

**(6:16am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Experiment, of  
course. -SH_

**(6:17am) (John Watson) - **_Sounds like I've  
stumbled on a really bad kinky porno._

**(6:17am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_I'm under the  
impression that this is_ _a bad time to mention that  
I own a riding crop. -SH_

Mildly concerning.

**(6:18am) (John Watson) - **_I dunno how to  
respond to that._

**(6:18am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Growl. -SH_

John paused a moment, before laughing again. Definitely not the type of conversation most people would be okay with but certainly something he could take. At least there'd be a few days of no withdrawal symptoms, where they could hopefully share a few moments of laughter.

_Mental note: Sherlock has a socially awkward/morbid sense of humour. Likely to disappear with withdrawal. Lovely._

**(6:20am) (John Watson) - **_I'll keep that in mind._

_If I don't respond to your texts just_ _keep going.  
I'm getting ready now,_ _but I'll answer them  
all at one point._

**(6:20am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Dull. -SH_

His stomach grumbled, as he stared at the last text.

**(6:20am) (John Watson) - **_Well then keep  
yourself amused by_ _being arrogant. It seems to  
suite you._

**(6:21am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_My entire  
outlook on life is arrogant._ _Best get used to it. -SH_

He gave the last text a quick look, before setting his phone back onto the bedside table and coaxing himself out of the warmth of his bed, with the promise of toast and tea.

His phone gave eight beeps, while he was making toast, and another two more, while he buttered it and spread the jam.

**(6:22am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Bored. -SH_

_As a doctor, I expect you to take note that  
boredom will likely kill me one day. -SH_

_Your lack of response certifies that you've  
left your mobile. -SH_

**(6:23am) **_The flat's empty. I'm fairly sure  
they're searching all my possessions to see if I  
have any other illicit substances hidden away. -SH_

_I was hoping I could introduce you to Cranium. -SH_

_Ignore the unimaginative name. I was nine, when_  
_he was given to me, and the name seemed a pure  
stroke of genius at the time.-SH_

**(6:24am) **_Would that be too morbid for you? -SH_

_The skull, not the name. If you find the name  
morbid, then I have no hope for our continued  
association (or your future in medicine) and  
suggest we severe_ _contact now.-SH_

**(6:25am) **_I will choose the skull over you if it  
comes to that. -SH_

_Even if you do have a full working skeleton  
contained within your body. -SH_

**(6:26am) (John Watson) - **_If it comes down  
to me and the skull, I'll have to kill myself and  
donate the skeleton to win?_

**(6:26am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Oh good.  
Morbidity certainly doesn't scare you away. -SH_

He bit into his toast.

**(6:28am) (John Watson) - **_My uni course  
details the entire human body and its various inner  
workings. A skull is actually a welcome touch of  
realism to my studies. Though I am a little concerned  
as to how you have a skull._

_Also how do I turn my phone on silent?_

**(6:29am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_What? -SH_

Didn't he know how to do that?

**(6:30am) (John Watson) - **_Y'know, so that it  
doesn't make any sound when I'm in class._

**(6:30am) (Sherlock Holmes) -**_You have a  
moderate texting speed which implies familiarity  
with the action, however, you don't know how to  
change the settings? -SH_

**(6:31am) (John Watson) - **_All my friends know  
to not text me in class. You're bored, and I want to  
read your texts, so I need to know how to set it to  
silent._

**(6:31am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Fiddle with the  
options – you seem intelligent, you'll find it. -SH_

_Seeing that you're asking to silence your phone  
already, I'm assuming our mutual communication is  
reading an end. -SH_

**(6:32am) **_Hm. -SH_

**(6:48am) (John Watson) - **_I did say I was getting  
ready._

**(6:49am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_And currently I  
am your incredibly_ _bored patient who is locked inside_  
_his own flat. I really do think that_ _you should amuse  
me, rather than_ _follow a curriculum set by professors  
__who assume themselves smarter than_ _the general  
populous. -SH_

**(6:50am) (John Watson) - **_But you went to uni._

**(6:50am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Yes. I also quit  
because they were_ _all morons. Have you figured out_  
_how to silence your mobile yet? -SH_

**(6:51am) (John Watson) - **_Yeah. I really do have  
to go now._ _Any last minute requests before I_ _face the  
world and my education?_

**(6:51am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Demand that Mycroft  
gives back my possessions. If not for my sake, then_ _for  
yours. -SH_

**(6:52am) (John Watson) - **_Will do. Gtg now. I'll uh  
see you at_ _your flat later I guess._

When Sherlock didn't respond within the minute, he tucked his phone into his pocket, shouldered his bag, gave the room a quick once over, and then finally set of for the little cafe where he'd meet Mike.

* * *

**AN**: This chapter really wasn't meant to be this long. It got away from me near the end and then Sherlock and John would not stop bloody texting. Also how does university work in London? Is it on campus? When is graduation? Things like that. I'd google it but it'd just be so much easier if someone could tell me so I don't blunder with the facts c:

As usual constructive criticism is welcome as well as any ideas/hints.


	3. Chapter 2

Note to self: Never trust fanfiction to actually save your editing and copy everything before saving. It will save much unnecessary heartache and foul language. Also these chapter titles. I give up. I half wanted to call it 'Toasty Paedophilia" because why the fuck not. Beta'd by _gbheart_.

* * *

_**Chapter 2 -** Assumptions and Deductions_

* * *

When John finally finished class, the first thing he did was check his phone. The fact that he only had three texts awaiting him was inconsistent. Sherlock had seemed to be quite an avid texter and bored to the point of no return. He'd mentally prepared himself to have to scroll through at _least_ over 50 texts, many of which would likely proclaim life as being tedious and not worth Sherlock's time.

Of course, three texts were not 50. Just when he thought he had this miniscule part of Sherlock Holmes figured out, the man blew away his assumptions, as easily as a butterfly in a gust of wind.

**(10:22am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_I've dismantled  
the toaster. -SH_

**(10:41am) **_Also, out of sheer spite and hilarity,  
I've conducted an experiment on burning said  
toaster. -SH_

**(1:48pm) **_Mrs Hudson decided to pay me a social  
visit. Inform Mycroft that he will be paying the  
damages in my stead. -SH_

John let out a horrified chuckle; this was absolutely barking mad. Who took apart toasters as a way to relieve boredom, and no doubt piss off siblings? Apparently Sherlock did. The same man who he'd signed up to check up on every day, for at least a couple of months, and provide medical advice for in the future. Why had he even deemed breaking the toaster as the most suitable form of entertainment? And, not only that, why did he then set _fire_ to it? Surely he had books or something.

He jumped when Mycroft Holmes seemed to materialise in front of him, without so much as a brief hello.

"Christ!" John breathed, and shot a small, apologetic smile at Mycroft.

The smile was ignored. "How is communication between you and my brother going?"

He glanced down at his phone with a tense look. "To be honest, I have no idea. He seems…" he tried to find a word that didn't express his distaste at the texts he'd just read, "amiable enough."

Mycroft gave him a condescending smile. "Amiable, really? I haven't heard someone describe my brother as amiable, for quite some time. Your discomfort with the situation isn't easily hidden from me. Both my brother and I are incredibly proficient with reading people – try and move past your need to adhere to social mores that dictate false niceties, and tell me truthfully what you think."

John stood still, completely shocked. Mycroft's eyes raked over him, and not in an appreciative or seductive manner, but rather like he was being deconstructed: different pieces of information being taken and compartmentalised to form a dossier on one 'Future Dr John Hamish Watson'. Those eyes finally rested on his face, and a look of pleasant calm washed over Mycroft, as though the creepy scenario, just a second ago, had been a figment of John's overly active imagination.

"Right then," John said, with a slight hitch in his voice. "He dislikes me, has a fairly macabre sense of humour, wants his stuff back, and broke the toaster. That about sums up our _communication_." He couldn't help but make the last word sound sour.

Mycroft nodded his acquiescence, before abruptly turning away, with the same flair and drama as yesterday, and leading them to the black car he'd seen only briefly before.

The car trip was spent in complete, though amused in the elder Holmes' case, silence.

* * *

John couldn't help but feel Mycroft's stare, as they exited the car. He saw the flicker of a curtain above them, and he somehow thought of Sherlock dashing away like a blushing maiden. The thought was ridiculous enough for him to smile briefly.

Mycroft followed him out of the car and handed him a set of keys. "Needless to say Sherlock won't always feel obliged to let you in," was the explanation.

Baker Street seemed like a quiet sort of area. True, there was traffic and the endless mulling of people coming to and fro, but there didn't seem to be anyone yelling like madmen – or women – and no cars bolting down the road with huge sounds booming from their exhausts. The atmosphere outside was calm; John just wasn't sure what to expect of inside 221B.

Mycroft stepped forward, as John observed his surroundings, and tapped on the door, with the handle of his umbrella, thrice.

A moment later, the door shot open, and a motherly sort of woman bustled into view.

"Mrs Hudson, this is Doctor Watson." He said flatly. "Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson."

They greeted each other with warm smiles, and she hastily let them in.

"He's been up there all day; Lord knows what the boy's been doing! I checked up on him, and there was the toaster all in pieces – put into little piles with notes about the metal." She gave a little indignant huff and waved for them to go upstairs. Mycroft stayed back, for a moment, to inquire about something – most likely the damages – but John took the open doorway as a sign to go straight on in.

Just in case, he knocked on the doorframe.

A split second later, Sherlock burst into view, all brutal energy and efficient grace. He was still dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown, however, that didn't detract from the all-consuming atmosphere that Sherlock was surrounded with. He was half a head taller, and, if it weren't for the fact that he'd been told of the five year difference between them, he'd say Sherlock was only eighteen, if not a lanky teenager who had already gone through all their growth spurts.

"May I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked immediately, his voice surprisingly deep.

He gaped. Not even a simple hello then? "Can't you just use the landline?"

Sherlock's brows furrowed, and he took a step closer, entering John's personal space without a single sign of discomfort.

"I prefer to text."

John edged away and stuck his hand quickly into his pocket, pulling out his mobile and quickly passing it over to his new 'patient'.

Sherlock spun the phone in his hand twice, quickly observing both its faces and sides, before turning it on and tapping away quickly, much quicker than John had ever done, and handing back the phone with, what John didn't really believe to be, a sincere thank you.

His observations were cut off as Sherlock spun on his heel and flung himself mindlessly onto the sofa, before settling into a perfect stillness, only cut by him steepling his fingers beneath his chin and wiggling them for a moment.

A quiet tone sounded from behind him, followed by the footsteps of what sounded like Mycroft. He turned with a strange expression, only to see the man staring down at his phone with muted disdain.

"Really, Sherlock?" He said, and swept past John, only to pause at Sherlock's frozen frame.

The tension was palpable.

"I'd hoped to avoid any sort of communication between us in spoken form, but even that seems to be out of your grasp. You're welcome to leave at any time; the door is, after all, just within your reach."

Mycroft sighed, "Such a child."

"And yet you're leaving me alone with an older man who has bisexual tendencies." Sherlock hissed bitterly. "Condoning paedophilia now, Mycroft?"

"Implying you are below the legal age, which just so happens to be false."

"I was six years ago, and, correct me if I'm wrong, but you did just call me a child."

"Hey!" John demanded, and they both looked at him with blank expressions. "I'm right here."

Sherlock sat up as quickly as he sat down, fixing him with a dark glare, while schooling his face to one of over enthusiasm. "Really?" He asked in a voice too high to not be sarcasm. "I hadn't noticed your presence! Brilliant." His gaze worked its way up to Mycroft. "You've secured me an idiot. Congratulations."

Just like a child, Sherlock bounded off the sofa, aimed one last menacing look at Mycroft, and then stormed off, leaving the two of them watching the back of his dressing gown with anger.

"Let me guess," John began. "He gets better? He doesn't like strangers?"

"I've been told you enjoy a challenge."

He scoffed. "There just so happens to be a difference between 'challenge' and 'colossal prick'."

Mycroft ignored him and instead presented him with a neatly £100 folded note. "A bonus," he whispered, and walked out the door, shutting it with a little click that seemed to have a rather difficult air of finality about it. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to decide what to do with himself.

On one hand, Sherlock already seemed like a right bastard and probably didn't deserve any of his time. On the other hand, he'd just been paid enough to pay part of his bills next week, and it'd just be rude to not at least attempt this.

He slipped his shoulder bag off and onto the sofa, before following the route Sherlock had taken, which led directly to the kitchen.

The kitchen seemed to mean experimental area, because the remains of the toaster were laid out in neat, precise piles. Next to each pile, there was a little note saying how much each pile had spent in direct contact with the flame. There was a thirty-second pile, one-minute pile, two-minute pile, and finally a five-minute pile. The bulkier pieces were off to the side, and every little plastic ornament that had once adorned the toaster had seemingly been melted into one distorted pile of utter uselessness.

He allowed his eyes to pass over the beaker of questionable fluids, which looked suspiciously reminiscent of the liquids they used to preserve flesh in the morgue, and focused on trying to get past the clutter on the floor. There were books and random sheets of paper stacked in organised chaos against the edges. He looked back to the sitting room and frowned at the sight of an empty bookshelf.

_No real organisational skills then, either. _

To his surprise, the door to Sherlock's room was wide open, the edge of a bed just in view. He cautiously stepped into the threshold, to see Sherlock lying on the bed with a look of pure distaste aimed in his direction.

"By paying you extra upfront, Mycroft was ensuring that your inner morality would come into play, and you'd stay out of respect. It's almost a nice form of bribery, if you look at it in the right way."

He frowned, and Sherlock sent him an unsettling grin.

"Oh, don't worry, he plays everyone like that; few people realise it's even occurred, until someone with higher intelligence points it out."

"And you consider yourself to be of 'higher intelligence'?"

The grin turned feral, and Sherlock angled his head towards him. "Graduation soon then, doctor? You'll finally have the time to seek proper employment, to pay back your debts to your brother. It's a shame he'll spend it all on drinking. You're trying so hard to maintain proper contact, however, it's almost like a barrier between the two of you. Not to mention the recent divorce – now that's just terribly inconvenient."

He'd felt Mycroft deconstructing him, whereas Sherlock had simply taken the facts, laid them out bare on the table, and then arrogantly quirked an elegant brow at him.

"How did you know all that?"

"I didn't." Sherlock said cryptically, before closing his eyes and replicating the position he'd taken on the sofa, mere minutes before. "As you're now considered my doctor, I should warn you of the symptoms I'm likely to go through. Personally, my physical symptoms are limited to mild tremors and headaches. As with all cocaine users, emotional withdrawal symptoms are nearly all present: anxiety, restlessness, irritability, insomnia, as well as tiredness. Poor concentration, depression, and social isolation are to be expected, also."

"Jesus," he breathed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock's eyes snapped back open to regard him curiously, before slipping half shut, subtly observing him. "Well… I've definitely seen irritability –" Sherlock scoffed, "and social isolation."

"Why do you assume this is social isolation?"

He looked around the room quickly. "There aren't any get-well cards and nobody wishing you a speedy recovery."

Sherlock's eyes followed the same path his had chosen, lingering on the bedside, just like John's had. His mouth quirked downwards briefly, before his eyes rested neutrally in front of him again. "Logical assumption."

"But?" John prompted.

Yet again, Sherlock's eyes flicked over to him so quickly, that it was almost scary.

"But that would imply there is someone to send said well wishes."

The silence was thick – thicker than the blanket covering Sherlock's bed. John's mouth opened and shut pointlessly, as he tried to collect his thoughts and steer them away from the dangerously uneasy conversation they'd just had. He stared at his shoes fruitlessly and wriggled his toes. It didn't help that Sherlock hadn't even moved, since the last word fell from his lips.

He went from looking at his feet to Sherlock's own bare ones. They were pale, with not even a hint of a tan line where his pyjamas had ridden up slightly to reveal his calf muscle. Maybe Sherlock simply deigned to constantly wear long trousers? He certainly didn't seem like the type to take picturesque holidays at idyllic, sunlit attractions. As rare as proper, full-blown sunlight was in their dreary climate, even he had a line from where his socks had stopped the sun, although that could be blamed on Rugby, which he used to play regularly.

Sherlock's voice broke through his thoughts rather easily.

"You asked how I knew about you."

Definitely a better topic than social isolation and the thought of feet.

"Yes, how did you know?"

Was it really so obvious? Was it written all over his face and the way he acted?

"I didn't know; I observed." Sherlock began, and John was sure that Sherlock was miffed that he had accused him of 'knowing'.

Sherlock stretched out his hand and quirked his fingers expectantly. "Phone," he demanded, and John fished it out for him again, gently placing it on his upturned palm.

Sherlock gave it a long look, before taking a breath and launching into his explanation. "Your phone: it's expensive, email-enabled, and with an MP3 player. You're a training medical student who doesn't have enough time to incorporate a proper job into his study time; you wouldn't waste money on something like this. It's a gift then.

"Scratches: not one – many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. Someone like you wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this. So, it's had a previous owner." He flipped the phone onto its front, so that the back is clearly displayed. "The next bit's easy; you know it already." He looked at John expectantly, and he had to force himself to respond.

"The engraving."

Hints of a smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. "Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father – this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but then again you're a medical student who wouldn't have enough time for extended family – unlikely they'd feel obliged to help you.

"Now Clara," his voice turned decadent. "Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment – an expensive phone suggests wife, not girlfriend. She must've given it to him recently; this model's only…" He appraised the phone carefully, "six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Only six months old, and he's given it away? But if she left him, he would've kept it; people do – _sentiment_. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you. That says he wants to keep in touch. You're obviously not living the richest lifestyle, as a medical student, and yet you won't go to your brother? That says you have problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, or maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?" He staggered his words, trying to wrap his head around what was being spouted at him. People aren't meant to be whirlwinds of knowledge like this. It's foreign and alien to see someone straying so far from normal. As strange as Sherlock's angular face, cat-like eyes and short, black curls.

"Shot in the dark," Sherlock said, with another barely there, proud smile, "good one, though." He paused for another short breath, before continuing his deductive monologue. "Power connection, with tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night, he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone – never see a drunk's without them."

"You said I was bisexual." _We've known each other for less than a day and you found that out before my own lesbian sister did!_

"In the window, I was watching. When you left the car, you quickly checked out the entire street, including the people on it. Unconsciously, you did so for both genders of a suitable age bracket. Your interest in the passing people was subtle – a look and nothing else. You may think you hide it well, but it only takes someone to really look, to see." He flips the phone twice in his hand, quickly checking for anything he may have missed, before ceasing movement entirely and looking briefly John. "You were right."

"_I_ was right? Right about what?"

"I do consider myself to be highly intelligent."

Sherlock was very pointedly avoiding meeting his eyes, instead casually twirling the phone and thumbing over the scratches with delicacy.

"That," he paused, and Sherlock looked innocently up to him, "was amazing."

And it was amazing. This was what Lestrade had meant, when he had said Sherlock was all too smart. He'd held back absolutely nothing from his observations. There was no bias in what he said, pure fact overriding Mycroft's 'social mores that dictate false niceties'. It hadn't been nice at all. Brutally efficient, straight to the point, and mostly correct. Was this what he saw when speaking to other people? Did certain parts of their person stand out immediately, so that he could form his own opinion of them, within seconds?

"You think so?" He stared at Sherlock and saw honest confusion written in his eyes.

_That would imply there is someone to send said well wishes._ Lestrade had also said Sherlock didn't associate with people much. If this was the sort of behaviour Sherlock displayed to everyone, then of course barely anyone would speak to him. That would also mean that no one legitimately stopped to appreciate his intellect, and that he'd be cast out of most social circles.

"It was extraordinary – quite extraordinary."

Sherlock's thumb stopped running over the marks completely, so instead, all his attention focused on John. "That's not what people normally say."

"And what do people normally say?"

He was sent a brief, awkward smile – the same you see on someone's face, when they're telling you something bad. That sort of tight-lipped smile that meant 'I'm okay with this, don't worry.' "Piss off."

John laughed because, in some ways, it was genuinely humorous. He could tell that that was the toned down version of what was usually said but didn't call him out on it; conversation had been much too taut and awkward before.

"So, hungry?" He asked. Food was generally a simple affair that didn't spark any amazingly uncomfortable situations.

Sherlock handed him his phone, before waving his hand in a non-committal manner. "Eating slows down my thinking process."

He opened his phone and casually went through the different options. "I'm fairly sure you told me that boredom was likely to kill you one day. If we slow your thought process down, then boredom will take longer."

"Surprising logic there."

He opened up the recently sent messages and gave Sherlock an exasperated look.

**_Messages Sent _(3:41pm) (John Watson) - **_Sod off. -SH_

"You sent your brother a text telling him to sod off? He was in hearing distance!"

Sherlock sniffed imperiously, and he sighed.

"Right. I'm off to get takeaway. Don't do another toaster fiasco."

"That would both imply I own another toaster, and that the original experiment was, indeed, a fiasco, both assumptions being incredibly false."

John sighed. "Well, you did break the toaster."

Sherlock gave him a cold look. "Considering my current predicament, I'm sure we can make an exception. It was either the toaster or the kettle. The kettle, being key in making both tea and coffee, was discarded from experimental purposes. I suggest you leave for that takeaway now, before conversation strays to something superfluously unwanted again."

He left without a goodbye, but, just as he left the front door, he got a new text.

**(4:12pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_There's a nice  
Chinese with interesting fortune cookies. I highly  
recommend it and will text you the address, in a  
moment. -SH_

**(4:13pm) **_If that's acceptable, of course. -SH_

He smiled.

**(4:14pm) (John Watson) - **_If it's expensive  
then I'm charging everything to your brother._

**(4:14pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_By all means,  
buy out the entire restaurant. -SH_

He smiled even harder, when the address was sent through, calling a cab and getting in with glee.

_Could be much, much worse_, he thought, still smiling.

* * *

**AN:** As always feel free to give constructive criticism. I've got plans for the next chapter and what some of the main plot is going to be now. If you have any ideas then feel free to.. unleash them on me? Also I mentioned that Sherlock has short hair. I did mean for it to be that way (look up Sherlock Pilot on Google Images, it's adorable how the hair makes him look so much younger). He looks so precious and young and I just really want to give him a hug. Oh god I need to stop now before I have some desperate fangirl moment *insert some flailing gif here*


	4. Chapter 3

So basically I procrastinated a lot, got a shit load of tests and assignments (funnily enough, one of the assignments is on cocaine) and then freaked out and spawned this. Take away, insomnia, sheets, violins, creepy Sherlock and some other things I really can't even remember. Beta'd by _gbheart_.

* * *

_**Chapter 3 -** The Problem with Sociopathy_

* * *

The cashier at the takeaway, John decided, was so overly exuberant, that it was just a little bit scary.

This particular takeaway seemed to have a system for loyal customers who'd been ordering with the place for longer. Once they'd asked him which name to put the order under, he said Sherlock Holmes. He'd been rather unprepared for the woman to beam at him, shuffle away with a shouted word in Chinese, and bring her husband to meet him. They asked if he and Sherlock were friends, and he shrugged and said, "maybe in the future."

The couple smiled so wide, that he thought their faces might break.

Eventually, after a few minutes of mutual chatter, his order was complete, and he waved them goodbye.

"We made sure to give him interesting fortune cookies again!" The husband shouted out behind him, and he gave them a bemused nod.

Not only was he fairly sure that they had given him extra food, but, after looking at the receipt, it was fairly clear they had undercharged him too, unless this was their 'loyal customers' system. As unexpected as it was, he went with it, heading to a local Tesco to grab a few extra things he'd need to survive whilst visiting 221B. A succinct text from Sherlock reminded him rather bitterly that 221B was really an easy address to remember, and that it should be within his capabilities to hire a taxi to and fro. He jiggled from foot to foot, at the cash register, and made a low, mournful noise, when a cab passed him mockingly. Another annoyed text later, he was finally on his way back.

Instead of revealing that he had a spare key, he buzzed himself up, and then had Mrs Hudson open the door for him. She made a very motherly cluck at the sight of food and recommended to always keep tea and coffee in the house.

Sherlock was still hidden away in his bedroom, when John walked in, arms laden with shopping bags.

"You went food shopping."

"Brilliant deduction," he quipped, and dumped one armful of the bags next to Sherlock. "You put away that bunch – I'm not going to be here three quarters of the time, and it'd make sense for you to know where the food is."

Sherlock glanced at the bags with a thick look of disdain, as though they had personally wronged him previously, and he'd been unable to prove it or exact some sort of revenge. When John didn't move from his spot, he sighed and grabbed the bags, sweeping out of the room on long limbs, and a fairly unnecessary dramatic flair. John quickly pulled something from one of the bags and placed it on the bedside table, before making his way out nonchalantly.

"Domesticity suits you," John noted with an amused tone, as Sherlock began sorting food into different cupboards and drawers, seemingly at random. Apparently his humour wasn't good enough for a verbal reply.

He grabbed his own bags and placed the food – bread, milk, and some canned fruit – next to Sherlock, so that he could hide it wherever he pleased. Sherlock seemed to pause at the bread; he looked the packet over once, and then removed three slices, before gingerly placing them on the corner of the countertop. John tried to look at the pieces, to make sure there was nothing remarkably different or wrong about them, but Sherlock blocked his view with crossed arms and a stern look.

"We can eat in the lounge." John said. Well, asked really, since Sherlock seemed a little overly defensive about the bread. The table was unavailable, due to destroyed scrap metal, though the armchairs and sofa looked relatively clean. Sherlock moved towards the armchair, instead of answering, seating himself Indian-style, before languidly settling back and waiting for him.

He gave Sherlock a box and a set of chopsticks, before taking some for himself and sitting opposite him.

Sherlock stabbed at his noodles, drawing one out and twirling it around his pair of chopsticks, before speaking.

"If I leave you to your diagnoses, and Mycroft's file on my medical history, are you likely to draw unnecessary conclusions?"

He opened his own box of food. "Yeah, probably."

Sherlock's face was perfectly blank, however, it translated his disdain well. He paused for a long moment, chopsticks still hovering in the air, aimlessly spinning in concentric circles, before finally re-joining the conversation.

"Contrary to my previous doctor's beliefs, I do not have anorexia nervosa or bulimia nervosa. Food, as previously mentioned, is a distraction, one I do not require most of the time." He gave John a pointed look, and then nibbled sensibly at his food. "Asperger's syndrome and antisocial personality disorder were the first two things they could pin on me, both I do display symptoms of but do not agree with."

"You don't have to agree with your doctor for it to be true."

He was fixed with an unwelcome stare. "Nonetheless," Sherlock said, already ignoring his interruption. "I instead work under the label of sociopath."

John opened his mouth to say something, to comfort or assure that it isn't true, when it hits him that he doesn't actually know enough about Sherlock to do so. If a doctor diagnosed him with Asperger's or ASPD, then Sociopathy seemed to lead on directly from that. People that spoke wrongly about themselves were often fishing for compliments, looking for someone to make themselves feel better, and yet he could tell neither were what Sherlock wanted. He had accepted, even _proclaimed_, himself as a sociopath, and it worked for him.

"Another cursory assumption is that I'm either bipolar or severely depressed," Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another bite. "I assure you, both are wrong. The moods I fall into are caused by intense boredom."

Something Lestrade had said stood out for him again: '_throwing himself into anything to distract himself.'_

"You did drugs because you were bored."

The admission seemed to shock Sherlock; he stopped his small movements with the chopsticks and slowly lowered them. "Yes, I did."

They seemed to have a knack for causing pure, undisturbed quiet. Every conversation seemed to hold its own weight, and it felt like a test. 'Can you take Sherlock Holmes without going absolutely stir crazy?'

He coughed to bring Sherlock's gaze, from the food, to him. "So, doctors apparently suck at getting your medical history right." He's given a nod. "Anything they did get right?"

"I've had intermittent chronic insomnia since I was 14."

Years. Sherlock was 23 and he'd been suffering from insomnia for _years_. John had had acute insomnia once, coming up to some of his important exams: a week and a half of restlessness, and the frustrating fact that his body couldn't shut down; it had driven him up the wall, driving him to every single stupid little remedy he could think of. One of the most simple things his body could do was being stopped by his minds endless whirring and worrying.

"Why haven't you tried curing it?" He asked neutrally.

"It's not something I can fix!" Sherlock snapped, pushing himself away from the chair.

He grabbed Sherlock's wrist, as he passed him, and pulled him back. There was something akin to a snarl aimed at him, but he ignored it, focusing instead on forcing Sherlock back into the chair. An oppressive miasma of barely restrained rage and helplessness hung around him.

"Explain," he said, pushing Sherlock back down into the chair, when he tried to get up.

He crouched down next to Sherlock's feet, with his hands on the armrests – a warning that if he tried to get up, he would push him back.

"I constantly think," Sherlock hissed at him, "I can't shut down – my mind eschews sleep, the same way it does with food. The necessity of it is ignored for something more interesting, and thus the inability to sleep is spawned. I haven't _'cured'_ it because it doesn't work. Medications had side effects, and, eventually, I became tolerant of their effects. Relaxation techniques were useless, and then they tried to teach me new behaviours – ways to act to promote sleep. They sent me to a therapist to _talk_ about my _problems_._ It doesn't work_."

Their food lay forgotten: Sherlock's hand was limply holding onto his box and John's abandoned on the seat of the other armchair. Sherlock gave off waves of contempt, whereas John was sat calmly, waiting for another flare of unpredicted anger to rear its ugly head.

John gently tugged at the carton of food still in Sherlock's hand. "So," he whispered, finally tugging it away and placing it on the ground near their feet. "The things you see and think about in real life keep you awake at night?"

"You're neither my handler, mother, nor therapist."

"True, but I am your doctor, and, if you have insomnia that bad, then I want to know about it. It's only going to get worse during the withdrawal, and it's going to make you a hell of a lot worse to work with. Just because you think you get everything right, doesn't mean you get to treat me, the person who's trying to help you, like shit."

Sherlock didn't deflate but he did loosen, his shoulders slumping inwards a little and the discontent crease between his brows disappearing. "What did I get wrong?" He asked. "You said I thought I got everything right, and, to my knowledge, everything I've discovered about you is correct. There's something wrong, there must be."

John smiled, "It's not wrong per se, and, if you were given the right information or didn't assume, then everything would be spot on." Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "Harry's my sister."

"_Sister_," Sherlock repeated. It was like he was testing the word on his tongue, repeating it again to make sure that the information is corrected, and the knowledge pathways he followed to reach his conclusion were changed from brother to sister. "Presumptions on gender and sexuality are always dangerous." He whispered grandly. "You are bisexual, yes?"

He nodded sagely and gave Sherlock back the box of Chinese, wiggling it under his nose, until the man finally acknowledged it and took it from him. "So… a riding crop. Care to explain?"

A small smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. It was so unexpected, that John smiled widely back.

"Occasionally, when the situation calls for, I whip cadavers."

He can't help the small choked breath he took, either.

"Relax," Sherlock said a little too smugly, sarcasm oozing from the word. "It was just a regular BDSM case."

* * *

They talked for over half an hour. John had grabbed his own takeaway, before sitting back down at Sherlock's feet – no more escaping, if they stumbled upon something sensitive.

The sky was already tingeing darker when they were cracking open their fortune cookies. John had almost cried from laughter, when Sherlock read, in the most stoic voice ever heard by mankind, "Pigeon poop burns the retina for 14 hours, you will learn this the hard way." It was even worse when Sherlock began hypothesising about how a pigeon would make its way into 221B, and somehow they ended up blaming it on Mycroft and an evil force of carrier pigeons.

The rest of the fortune cookies were boring, in comparison. They saved the leftovers in the fridge, and John couldn't help but marvel at how remarkably well the two of them fit – an antisocial withdrawing addict and a previously broke med student – once they surpassed the initial awkwardness. He left with another ignored goodbye, but he really just couldn't stop thinking about how easier things would be, if they stayed at that level.

He was just five minutes into the taxi ride home, when he got his first text from Sherlock.

**(7:22pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Why? -SH_

He was surprised at the bluntness of it. _Was it really so unexpected? _John pondered.

**(7:22pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Are you  
expecting favouritism? More money? Was it_  
_a request of Mycroft's? -SH_

**(7:24pm) (John Watson) - **_Jesus Sherlock.  
It was the nice thing to do, nothing else._

**(7:24pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Ah. Very  
well. -SH_

**(7:24pm) (John Watson) - **_Though I  
really wouldn't mind being mates._

A card. A simple well-wishes card, left on Sherlock's bedside table, had riled him up this much? Was it really so unexpected for him to want to be friends with the other man? The face Sherlock made, when John complimented him, suddenly stood out in his mind strongly. Yes. Maybe it was that difficult for Sherlock to comprehend. He was obviously a man of little social graces and even less friends, potentially zero. He wondered if Sherlock would refer to Lestrade as an acquaintance or a colleague. What did he call Mycroft?

He paid his fare and climbed god-knows-how-many stairs, to reach his little rented flat. Toeing off his shoes, he threw his bag a little unceremoniously onto the bed, before sitting down next to it. _Ding! _The awaited text finally arrived. He pulled his phone out a little too quickly to seem calm.

**(7:47pm)(Sherlock Holmes) - **_Thank you. -SH_

Number of friends Sherlock Holmes now had: 1.

* * *

It was day two of... He was still looking for something suitable to call his adventures to 221B. 'Job' really didn't seem to cover the complexity of what he was being fronted with. So far, he had just settled for 'Day two of the continued association with a very strange man'. It had a certain ring to it that really stuck in his mind.

Keeping in mind that Sherlock didn't even seem to care, he, for the first time, used his own key to unlock the door, when the idiot didn't deem him important enough to invite him inside.

Once he walked in, the reason seemed a little clearer.

"Are you wearing any pants?" He asked, as he slipped his bag off and crossed his arms over his chest.

A lazy yawn overtook Sherlock. "No."

'Day two of continued association with a very, _very_ strange man.'

He was pretty aware of the image the two of them would strike, if anyone decided to walk in now – him standing next to the sofa, in a defensive position, and Sherlock in the middle of the room, holding a sheet loosely around him with one hand, as he scratched lazily behind his ear with the other. _Really, who welcomes their doctor like that?_

Anyone who walked in two minutes later would find them giggling in an unhinged manner.

Sherlock's laugh was as deep as his normal voice. It was a little strange how the man seemed to sport an extra chin, as he giggled, and it only made John laugh harder. The extra moment that he laughed was enough time for Sherlock to approach, once again entering his space without any hints of discomfort. It was disconcerting, except for the fact that, if he wanted to, he could bundle Sherlock up in those blankets, so that he couldn't move and would be forced to sit like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

"Do you have any mud on your shoes?"

"No." He said, as Sherlock's eyes fixated on his shoes. "Why?"

"If I had my microscope, then I could test the pollen to see where you've been."

He took a calculated step away from Sherlock and gave a little huff of relief when attention was returned back to his face. "That sounds like a very stalker-ish approach to finding out where I've been. You could just ask."

Sherlock sat down on the sofa. "That defeats the purpose. Testing where you'd been would be amusing for some time, whereas asking would be a split-second venture."

Right. Testing mud for pollen – _how would that even help? _– was considered a fun activity to Sherlock. What else did the man do for leisure? Couldn't he at least clean the place up a little, before going on about mud and microscopes and his other scientific pastimes?

"So, what else do you do for fun?"

"I don't do anything solely for amusement. However, I do play the violin."

"Really?" It was unexpected, when it shouldn't have been. Sherlock had an aristocratic air about him; he walked proudly and spoke eloquently. "Would you play for me?"

"The moment it's relinquished from my brother's hold, I will play, whether you'll be in hearing distance is unknown."

It was fair enough, although it was a little annoying how the situation circled back to Mycroft again. The man didn't even have to be there to impose himself on most of Sherlock's actions. Checking to see if Sherlock had anything hidden was all well and good, but taking all of his possessions was just untactful and plain rude. If Sherlock had taken drugs to stop himself from being bored, then the next couple of weeks, or however long Mycroft planned to keep him here, would be hell for him. Consequences be damned, he grabbed Sherlock's phone from where it was sitting on the table.

"What do you have him named under?"

While Mycroft had his number on private for John, he was sure that the same wouldn't apply to Sherlock. He could text the girl called Anthea, but that just wouldn't hold the same weight.

"His name – I don't feel the need to bring petty names into my phone."

He nodded and scrolled through the list of names. There really weren't many. There was a girl called Molly, next to Mycroft, but the name was so unassuming, that he thought nothing of her. Then again, his name wasn't too awe-inspiring either.

He was all too aware of the fact that Sherlock was staring at him with unbridled curiosity; it didn't seem to end. He began typing out his message.

**(3:04pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Violin and  
microscope back now. -JW_

**(3:04pm) (Mycroft Holmes) - **_Doctor Watson,  
always a pleasure. Has my brother demanded  
you carry this out or is this your own incentive?  
Whatever the answer, I won't think less of you. -MH_

**(3:05pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_None of your  
business. Give him the stuff back. The skull too. -JW_

**(3:05pm) (Mycroft Holmes) - **_Anthea will be there  
within the next ten minutes. I do hope Sherlock has  
remained 'amiable' so far. He is in the habit of scaring  
away most people. -MH_

**(3:06pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Yet I'm still here. I  
don't see why you're trying to frighten me away from  
him, after hiring me. -JW_

There must have been some expression of distaste on his face, because Sherlock snatched the phone, his upper lip curled in contempt, as he rapidly punched out a message. He threw the phone back down and stalked into his room with practiced anger. It was a little difficult to ignore when the sheet slipped down to cover just his lower half, and a canvas of scars was bared to him. Even though he only saw it for a few seconds, the image was imprinted on him mind**. **John had the urge to follow him and lay him down, so that he could study the scars on his back with careful hands and gentle pressure.

He'd never seen scars like that, in real life, at least.

The one on his lower back was a thin graze from a knife; the scar is too clean for it to be anything but. However, the vertical stripes running down his back, almost parallel to his spine, were what held his interest. They were obviously new, judging by the raw, pinkish undertone to them. He wondered why there were three of them, almost identical, on Sherlock's back. He wondered if there was any scarred skin marring the rest of him, and if it had blended to be soft like the skin around it or stayed warped and tough to touch.

Once he caught himself musing the muscle definition on Sherlock's back, he stopped and got off the sofa. He followed Sherlock to his bedroom and knocked on the closed door. There was no answer, and, after a minute, he knocked again. He could hear the muffled sound of clothing and wasn't exactly sure what his feelings were about it. He was bisexual in the sense that he found sex with men enjoyable; attraction wasn't usually too strong a factor, in that he didn't really have a type, but he could appreciate Sherlock's features and the masculinity of his body.

_Definitely not the right type of thoughts to have, when you can hear the guy you're thinking about getting changed._

The door opened, and John knew that he was blushing when Sherlock's eyes paused for too long on his face, and his nervous lip-licking habit really did seem to come out at the wrong time.

Not that Sherlock didn't look good in his suit, no – he pulled it off really quite nicely, with the black and white perfectly complimenting his skin – _oh, god, stop he's right there._

"Anthea will be here in a couple of minutes."

"Yes."

They maintained eye contact, until John finally shuffled to the side, and Sherlock coolly passed him. He hadn't observed Sherlock's arse before, but, considering his previous thoughts of cataloguing skin, he didn't feel too bad giving it a quick glance.

He was jolted out of his thoughts, mainly revolving around the idea of Sherlock looking amazing in finely tailored trousers, by the sound of keys jingling in the doorway._ Of course Mycroft would provide Anthea with keys, too._

Sherlock had positioned himself in his armchair again, watching the doorway with half-lidded eyes, as his hands resumed their prayer-like position. It's a protective façade of cool intellect and superiority that he had donned, just for Anthea.

When the door opened, Anthea stood in the doorway, avidly texting with one hand and twirling the house keys skilfully in the other. She pushed a cardboard box inside with the point of her shoe, before closing the door again. John was rather impressed at how her eyes never left the screen.

Sherlock didn't move, until the front door audibly closed. When it did, he lunged for his things in a comical manner. John found himself associating the move with that of an addict going for a drug, when it hit him that that's almost exactly what it was: an addict going for something to distract themselves. It was a sobering thought.

He crouched next to the box. Sherlock had already lifted out Cranium and was passing it to him with infinite care. The violin case came out next; there was a single scratch on it, from the knob on the microscope, which Sherlock tutted over. The microscope was the last thing of importance, in the box. A few little bits and bobs were left, at the bottom, but the violin grabbed his attention first. It felt a little personal, when Sherlock lifted the violin out and skimmed his fingers over the strings, plucking notes out at random and murmuring soft words only for himself to hear.

John was transfixed when the bow was dragged across the strings, for the first time, and watched with fascination, as Sherlock twisted the tuning pegs rapidly. He relocated to the sofa, and his sudden movement seemed to bring Sherlock out of his reverie.

When Sherlock stood and placed the violin against his neck, the image looked right. The suit, his stance and the look of honest content on Sherlock's face worked well, in tandem. There was nothing crazed about it, with the bow taking its place and the music soft and sweet. He was not sure how long the melody stayed delicate and ethereal, but, somehow, it lulled him to sleep.

* * *

The violin, thankfully, did not have a single scratch on it, except from two years ago, when it was hit against something that he could not recall. The case suffered a minor abrasion in its move, but that didn't particularly faze him. He was pleased with the fact that it was still mostly in tune – the strings taut to just the right amount to not only make sound, but music. There was no direct formula for music. There was duration, pitch, dynamics and all the rest, but it is talent and passion that bring it together, stronger than all the others combined. The violin was the medium of expression, and, right now, he cannot help but feel pleased.

He was a little startled when John stood and made his way to the sofa, seating himself in a way that said he expected to be there for some time.

Sherlock stood and began. His fingers had long become accustomed to how they must manipulate the strings. He wondered, if he showed John the calluses on his fingers, would the doctor be able to identify which were caused by his violin-playing?

His actions were romanticised: the soft steps as he walked round the room, how his eyes eventually drifted shut, because muscle memory would carry the music through for him, and how he could hardly help but feel the music and picture notes drifting in the air. Clef, minim, tie, diminuendo. He could hear the music, John's breathing, and his own. The outside traffic was forgotten, the music demanding its very own stage and spotlight.

He circled the room and stopped where he knew the sofa would be, a long pure note filling the air, as he finally reopened his eyes. John had slumped over, somewhere in the time he played, head lolling peacefully against the shoulder, Cranium, in his lap, tilted the same way. Sherlock was truly curious about it. John had fallen asleep and not falsely, either. His breathing was deep, no little twitches of energy running through his body, and limp limbs were twisted a little uncomfortably. Did music often ensure sleep for John? Was it a trait that most people carried, or those who singularly enjoyed this type of music?

He was tempted to launch into a difficult piece filled with crescendos and forte moments, however, the slack expression on John's face was interesting. His thin lips were parted in constant breath, and the back of his hair was uneven from where his head had slid from upright to the side. The left hand that been cradling the top Cranium was now lying against his thigh, after having lost its grip.

Was he meant to play host to a sleeping John now? Was it him who had to remain quiet and attempt not to wake him, or could he carry on as normal, moving from piece to piece on the violin before the pads of his fingers were sore, and he went and set up the microscope?

Neither John nor Cranium deigned to answer, both silent save for the little snuffles John made when breathing in._ He has a mild cold, mucous present in the airways, making breathing more audible._

He placed the violin on the floor and sat next to John slowly, body turned so he faced him. When his breathing pattern remained stable, he began exploring.

He first touched at the skin where stubble should be present. True enough, the skin was rougher there. John likely shaved daily, most likely a morning ritual, although he could pass one or two days stubble off well. The skin on John's lips was finely chapped, much like his own. The temptation to dip his fingers into John's mouth and explore the inside was strong, but the likelihood of John waking up was even stronger, and he had no gloves with him, at that current moment.

His fingers followed the creases in the skin, the lines where wrinkles would develop deeper. John had a very expressive face: laughter lines, wrinkles on his forehead and bags beneath his eyes. His hair had an odd blond colour, brown weaving in with lighter golden tones.

_Is this unacceptable?_ He retracted his hands, folding them in his lap. Was he allowed to touch a human being so alive: lungs still taking in air; heart still pumping blood; brain, though currently resting, still working? His touch was often reserved for the dead and their cold, lifeless bodies. John was so alive, beneath his fingertips, his warmth a very real and not all that unpleasant feeling. Would John's body be this interesting if there was a stab wound, or if poison had coursed through his veins? Truthfully, Sherlock didn't know. Having run his fingers placidly over this face, a part of him considered the possibility that the answer was no, but work had always been more important than any other human. Was it because he had never had someone willingly sleeping in his presence? After sex, he had always left. Sleeping with the person afterwards encouraged more communication, something he keenly did not want. Was it because John was the first person to praise, listen, laugh and understand? It was an unprecedented turn of events.

He knew John wanted him, on some level, sexually – the truth was written in his body language in a way that could not be erased – but why did he want to touch John without the clinical sense that he often applied to touching? The idea of cataloguing John because he could, rather than for data, was more pleasing than expected. John's presence was one that would be with him for the coming weeks regularly, his imprint already minutely felt in the flat, via the takeaway in the fridge, the food in the cupboard, the bag on the sofa, and currently John himself.

Could this be mere curiosity, because of the novel experience it was, and would he toss John Watson away, at the end, like he had done with sex, cigarettes and adrenaline? Technically, this was wrong. He was a sociopath; the need to want human touch was profound and utterly new to him. When he discovered the little well-wishes card, after John left yesterday, the first thing he did was examine what John would gain by leaving that card. The admission that John wouldn't mind a friendship between them was ridiculous.

Just as the feeling of warmth, after John complimented him, was also ridiculous.

How pleasant would it be if John would be a constant with him? Another person who understood, or at least tried to, his deductive process, to treat him as another human being and not a freak, to demand things from Mycroft as he had done today, and to listen when he was angry.

How strange that he should crave the carnal want for companionship, when it was him who abandoned such ideals years ago.

* * *

**AN:** So basically I made Sherlock really lonely. I've decided that insomnia is going to be a key plot point in the story (I read a fic where Sherlock had insomnia and really it just suited him so, hopefully, I can bring that realism here too). If there are any glaring mistakes feel free to point them out and as always reviews are welcome.


	5. Chapter 4

Ahh, I remember when I was planning this story in my mind and I thought to myself "Lets kinda save the sexual tension until they finally know each other, yeah?" Well apparently these two are going to be getting together quicker than I expected. Beta'd by _gbheart_ :)

* * *

_**Chapter 4 -** A Touch of Insomnia_

* * *

The first thing that really hit John, when he woke up, was that the violin had finally stopped. It took him a moment to really register that it was because he'd fallen asleep. The shadows had changed completely, and Sherlock wasn't slowly pacing the room anymore, treating the violin with utmost care as songs John didn't recognise poured forth. He felt almost a little guilty, having fallen asleep; it made it seem like he wasn't invested at all in Sherlock's playing. Hopefully, Sherlock wouldn't take it as that.

"Four a.m., approximately eleven and a half hours, yes."

He jumped. The shadows had hidden Sherlock from him quite well. He was seated at the other end of the sofa, with the glare from his phone casting a strange complexion on his face, dragging out the angles of his cheekbones and making his face look even thinner.

"Sorry?" He really couldn't comprehend.

"I've answered your inevitable questions: it's 4am, you've been asleep for approximately eleven and half hours – I can't be too sure and I wasn't bothered tracking your sleep cycles – and yes, I've been sitting here for some time."

He clamped his mouth down on a yawn and thought to himself that, yes, those would have been his first three questions. He wondered if he should tell Sherlock to get some rest, but then realised that it wouldn't be taken well. Sherlock seemed to know his own limits, and pressuring him wouldn't help either of them; it was better to build a trustingly open relationship now, when his own altruistic want to help couldn't be mistaken as something else.

It had felt weird, sitting there in the dark, but the extra sleep he had caught up on felt amazingly good. He was not sorry at all – all right, he felt a _little_ guilty – and hoped that Sherlock didn't have too much trouble sleeping. Of course he was there to help, but it would be so much simpler without additional problems. _God, that sounds selfish._

Sherlock suddenly turned his phone off and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket, casting them into an even deeper darkness. The curtains were open, but there still wasn't a large amount of light coming through. There was a split second of panic, where he wasn't sure why Sherlock had done that, and then the realisation came that, to Sherlock, this was very, _very_ normal. To him, darkness would be almost comforting, maybe. Taking visuals out of the equation would stop him from observing the things around him, inevitably finding more to think about in his surroundings, and setting him on a new cycle of thought that would take god-knows-how-long to exhaust completely. It reminded John of when he was searching for something online, and he would find a single article that required him to research its secondary and tertiary branches just to gain an understanding.

The lack of light drove his other senses into overdrive. He stopped breathing, for a moment, just so that he could hear Sherlock's own breath. He found that the other man's breathing went on, for a little while longer, and then his stopped too – a perfect imitation of him**. **John stopped the other little movements he'd been making too, just to see what would happen, but then gasped in shock when two hands grabbed at him.

"John," Sherlock murmured, and it was then that John got the feeling that there was something going on – a moment where Sherlock was discovering something, and it was something about _him _that was causing it. There was a minute shift in Sherlock's hands; they dropped lower, onto his forearm, and John felt each individual finger move on its own. "You should move in here."

_Move in?_ _What_?

"You're going to be spending most of your time here anyway, you won't have to spend money on transport, and you'll still be within a fair distance of your university. I'm fairly sure it was another factor Mycroft took into account, considering there is a spare bedroom, so the invitation is open." Sherlock was rambling by the end of it. It was far more coherent than most people's ramblings, but it was still that: a ramble. The idea wasn't actually as mad as John thought, and Sherlock was right on all counts, but there was also the potential for it to turn out fairly bad. They'd known each other for, what John realised, was only three days.

Sherlock seemed to catch onto what he was thinking.

"I would not offer if I thought that we wouldn't be mutually compatible as flatmates."

It was true that they'd had their awkward moments, which must have taken up around eighty-five percent of their conversations, so far, but, in Sherlock's situation, it wasn't unexpected. If their association was to suddenly stop working, it would be a mere matter of moving out. With the pay he was getting now, and the fact that he would be able to start looking for a job as a fully qualified doctor soon enough, he'd be able to afford a place to rent comfortably. He didn't see why Mycroft would raise any major objections, and it didn't seem farfetched at all to think that Mycroft chose someone with this in mind, so it seemed rather okay. Doctor-patient association was always a bit questionable, but the situation wasn't really conventional, in any sense. Medically, there wasn't much that he could do for Sherlock, except offer him support.

He fumbled for Sherlock's hand, taking it into his own to express his acceptance, since he was fairly sure that there wasn't enough light to see his smile. "That sounds okay."

"Good."

He placed the skull off to the side, and then pulled at Sherlock, bringing them both to their feet. He wondered if Sherlock recognised the intimacy of the situation that they were in, at that moment, and if he did, if it made him uncomfortable. With time, Sherlock would probably come to know almost everything about him, the deductions stripping away layers of him, until his life was left bare, yet he knew hardly knew anything of the enigma standing to his left.

"Tell me something about yourself."

Their hands dropped, and he knew that Sherlock was trying to make out his features through the gloom. "Why?"

"Because I'm your doctor, future flatmate, friend and currently have nothing else to do."

He could hear Sherlock walking away; his steps seemed infinitesimally louder, with John's sight being rather useless. There was a rustle, and the curtains were drawn back further. Sherlock's silhouette was stronger now, as he paced to the fireplace. A brief flare of light followed, and then a much larger one. There was now a warm glow on only half the room, but Sherlock didn't seem inclined to fix it.

"No lights then?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Too bright. Do you require food yet?"

He tried to not be offended, really, he did, but it was tricky not to, when he had just been referred to like an animal.

"Sorry?" He hissed.

"Do I have to repeat everything I say?" The man responded in the same acidic tone. "Food. Most people require it periodically. I'd recommend finishing the takeaway, but there's an experiment in the microwave, so it'd have to be cold. Either that or you make something for yourself; it hardly matters."

_Clueless_. Sherlock was absolutely clueless about what he'd done wrong.

"Most people don't take kindly to being alluded to as an animal, Sherlock."

"I – that was not my intention."

John sighed. _How do other people communicate with Sherlock? Do they ignore his brashness or do they get angry?_ The question had been innocent but its delivery thoughtless, much like the way he had delivered his deduction previously.

He led them into the kitchen and squinted. Firelight and moonlight were all well and good, but he really had no idea what he was looking at, or if he was standing on any important notes. He turned to Sherlock. "Where'd you put the cereal?"

It was clear, from the way that Sherlock moved around the kitchen, that he knew the exact placement of everything. The bowls had a drawer for themselves; spoons and other utensils the drawer below; the cereal was up in a corner; and, thankfully, the milk was in the fridge. He half expected Sherlock to just shove it all at him, but instead, the detective walked over to the fire with the bowl and spoon and carefully inspected them, before returning, and _then_ thrusting them at John. He gave them a dubious look, but Sherlock expressed his distaste with a soft, drawn out breath rather clearly.

He managed to pour both the milk and cereal, both of which he bought yesterday, so there was no chance of being expired, before returning to the armchair.

"So, what's in the microwave?"

Sherlock perked up slightly. "Dust accumulation experiment. The results would have been made redundant, with all of the movement, so I had to place it in a contained area, where no further dust could collect and no air flow would occur."

Actually, he could see the logic in that move. "Why didn't you just use Clingfilm?"

"None on hand, and I didn't particularly feel like fronting the public for something as meaningless as diaphanous plastic."

John nodded, before moving from the chair to the floor. Truthfully, it was a little cold, and he was pleased to feel the warmth on his back. He spooned some more cereal into his mouth, before picking his next question.

"What about the new scars on your back?"

It may have been a trick of the light, but he was fairly sure that Sherlock's cheeks had pinked lightly. "Ah, the BDSM case. It appeared that sneaking around for information wasn't very welcome, and so the punishment was…" he trailed off, and John laughed, a little bit of milk spilling over the side of the bowl.

"Not used to being dominated then?" He joked, full expecting a smart arse answer to be volleyed back at him but only getting a terse "no" in reply.

Oh, well then. At least now he knew that Sherlock wasn't asexual. At least, he hoped he wasn't misreading it. For all he knew, Sherlock might just always like to be in control, seeing as dominating wasn't necessarily something sexual, although he had certainly had meant it to be, at that moment.

"Interesting," Sherlock purred without pause. "You find me sexually attractive, yet haven't gone as far as to set up premature views on what my sexual orientation would be, any likes or dislikes, or what I would look for."

John spluttered and went a little red in the face. "This is one of those things people generally don't talk about, Sherlock. Especially with your future flatmate."

Sherlock shrugged in a way that was much too casual for it to mean that he was letting it go. John hastily got up and finished the rest of his food, in the short space between the fireplace and kitchen. He shoved his bowl into the sink, and, for good measure, splashed some water over it. He jumped, when Sherlock more or less brushed up behind him and muttered deeply in his ear "Your hypothesis was right; I've never been dominated like that – in a way, you could almost call me a virgin." before disappearing into his bedroom, the door closing with a barely-there click.

_Fuck. Well, isn't this just absolutely grand?_ _Agreeing to move in with someone you've thought, only briefly, sexually about, and then having them manipulate your views on them and their interest in sex, in a manner that told you nothing explicit, but left far too much to the imagination._ Sherlock was obviously testing him for his reaction. The man was bored, and John was entertainment, but this wasn't a game he wished to play. He had absolutely no idea how Sherlock viewed him, be it doctor, platonic, friend, or attractive, and right now, that was one of the biggest factors holding him against the sink, because, frankly, that had been one of the most blatant come-on's that he'd ever been a witness of.

He turned the tap off harshly and grabbed his bag off the sofa with vigour. The skull was watching him with empty eyes that seemed to implore him to do something. He sneered at it, and gave the room a quick once over, attention mostly on the fire.

Sherlock wasn't an idiot, and there was a fire extinguisher in the kitchen. The man might not be present in this room, but he was fairly sure that if, god forbid, a fire should start, then it would catch his notice. He walked out and locked the door carefully behind him, yet again jumping when the other Holmes brother shifted himself from a very casual lean against his umbrella.

"Ah, Doctor Watson, walk with me?"

* * *

Mycroft had said that he just wanted to give John a lift home – a friendly and open gesture to show that he was here to make sure that nothing happened to him, in the early hours of the morning.

But, then again, it was bloody 5am, and who came out to _drive someone home_, when their only connection was a singular person? He knew that there was something that Mycroft wanted to say and he waited for it to happen.

"It appears you've caught my brother's attentions rather efficiently." Mycroft said with a cool smirk, his expression blanking, a moment later. "Considering that you will be moving in with him, I have two warnings for you."

John wrung his hands together. _Nice to see that Mycroft already knows about that._ "This isn't just you telling me that if I hurt him, you'll hurt me?"

Mycroft gave a careful, controlled laugh, as though what John said was the most amusing thing in the world. "While that is the approach most take, I can see you're intelligent enough that it won't be necessary." _Flattery and a threat tied into one_? "My brother's personality has been often coined as destructive; he may think of you as a possession, rather than a living and breathing human being at times. It's his nature, and one of his many faults. He separates himself from others, even inside his own mind, and it can require an arduous effort for him to even attempt communication."

_Who the fuck is Mycroft to be reading into his brother's life like this?_ Some things were meant to stay hidden, and, though he could see where Sherlock was going wrong, he wasn't going around telling other people. It felt like he was intruding. Mycroft probably knew Sherlock better than anyone, and what he was saying was undoubtedly true, and another warning against Sherlock.

"My brother," Mycroft said forcefully, reengaging his thoughts, "is also incredibly passionate about the things he holds dear. He does not take things in interest lightly, but is very thorough when he does so. You've already declared your kinship, something he has not had in many years, I assure you. He will want to learn you and will test your responses to various stimuli, something I'm sure he's done already."

The feeling of Sherlock turning his body parallel with his own, moving past him in silence, save for his voice, was fresh in his mind. Mycroft seemed pleased that his deduction was correct.

"Why are you saying this?"

"Basic facts, John – what you do with them is entirely up to you." The car pulled to a stop. "I suggest you spend this evening explaining that you're moving. If you disappear completely one day, then people tend to assume foul play."

He thanked the driver, before stepping out, regarding Mycroft coolly, once he did. "Good day," he said curtly, before shutting the door a little more forcefully than may have been strictly necessary.

* * *

He was an idiot, even comparing his intelligence to Anderson's wasn't erasing the feeling of complete and utter stupidity from him. Why did he do that? What possessed him to touch John like that? Oh, he knew John had wanted it – flushed cheeks, elevated breathing, and tense shoulders – but he hadn't gone for it. He hadn't been given a clear signal on whether Sherlock was mutually interested, and so had simply stood there, silently raging on his way out – _keen on participation of both parties during a relationship of any sorts, then_.

Which was all well and good, except for the fact that he needed John to distract him. Sherlock had known that, when he approached John like that, the man would flee. He hadn't even deigned to stop him after all, but now, the desire to see how John responded under various situations was replaced by the fact that he wasn't feeling well. Sleep was evading him stealthily again, and he hadn't slept since Wednesday morning, when he'd crashed on the couch, before Mycroft began his incessant lecturing. How many days had he been in captivity? Two. Two days and he already regretted touching that needle more than ever before. He'd be in here two weeks minimum, to get over the first stage of withdrawal. After that, only Mycroft's meddling and his own behaviour could tell.

If he texted John, saying that he was feeling ill, what could he do? Insomnia was psychological, his need to think overriding his need to sleep. Right now, he wanted to sleep, hours simply slipping away, rather than dragging in mud and trekking it all over the calm of his mind. It would be blissful to lose a few hours of each day to rest. There was nothing holding him back now, and yet it passed his body and mind's abilities to shut down and recuperate.

He groaned and flung the door open, storming through the flat. If he burnt enough energy, then his body should let go, correct? It seemed logical enough, but then again, he wasn't going to pace until he felt more lethargic. He already felt a little lethargic. Lethargic and frustrated; the two never worked together well.

He pulled out his phone again to text John – no one else really mattered, at the moment.

**(5:05am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_Bored. -SH_

And now he waited, fingers drumming against the meat of his thigh. Surely John didn't take this long to text back? He was a perfectly capable human being; this simple task of pressing plastic buttons really shouldn't surpass him. What did it matter that –

**(5:06am) (John Watson) - **_Clean the place  
up. I'm not going to be living in a pigsty and I  
won't be around till tomorrow evening._

Panic. He didn't feel it often, but it certainly made itself known now._ Tomorrow evening._ That would be approximately 31 hours from now. _No, John wouldn't arrive until a little later, after his classes_. 35 hours possibly? Not good. The violin had lost some of its appeal, most of his experiments were rendered useless, and his books' knowledge already consumed.

**(5:08am) (Sherlock Holmes) - **_May I ask  
why? -SH_

**(5:09am) (John Watson) - **_Saying bye to  
the neighbours. When someone moves out  
without a trace and no goodbyes, people get  
a little irked._

Oh god forbid the neighbours should have their precious little sensibilities irked. Maybe John would like to sleep over with each of them, say tearful goodbyes and explore deep, heartfelt memories they'd all shared together over tea. He hoped one of them choked on a biscuit.

**(5:12am) (John Watson) - **_Just do some  
cleaning._

Cleaning: mindless and simple, and hopefully physically draining enough to help.

* * *

At 10am, Mrs Hudson brought some scones up. His frustration translated to open hostility, and she left within minutes.

By 1pm, his bookshelf was full and the floor clean of any paper.

At 3pm, John sent him a text apologising for not being able to make it today.

By 4pm, the room was artfully arranged in a manner that pleased him. The knife stabbed into the mantelpiece and Cranium next to it gave the room a nice touch.

At 4:30pm, he began the mould experiment with the bread he'd stolen from John's shopping, the day before. It was truly a shame that the experiment literally took seconds to set up and days to garner quality results.

By 9pm, his hands had began to tremble.

* * *

John really hadn't been all that sorry, as he left his old flat. It had been dingy, and the fridge had always had an air of fetid meat to it. The neighbours hadn't really cared that one of their long-term residents was leaving, although that may have been his fault, for never socialising. One of the other students gave him a smile, as he walked out with a suitcase. All that was in the case was clothes, a couple of items of significant importance, his sheets and his pillow case. The furniture had already been there, and he'd given all the food to the next door neighbour. He trotted down the steps optimistically and was only minutely deterred at the sight of Mycroft's assistant holding a car door open for him.

He wasn't even annoyed at the fact that her eyes never left her phone's screen.

Mike had been a little lost, at how John had seemingly spun most of his life around Sherlock already, but managed to get himself a free coffee as an apology.

He trudged up the stairs to 221B, suitcase hitting each step with an awkward sound. His hands were just at the door to what was now their shared flat, when he heard shattering glass and something heavy toppling over. He rushed inside, not really caring that his suitcase was left inside the doorstep. There was no one in the lounge, but it only took a few steps for Sherlock to come into view.

The floor was devoid of any clutter, except for shattered glass, a toppled stool, and a reddish pooling liquid that he severely hoped was not blood of any kind. Sherlock was pressed up against the sink, and it didn't take much effort to figure out that something was wrong. Sherlock's posture was completely rigid; from head to toe, it was one tense straight line of taut muscle. He could visibly see how his chest was rising and falling with each unsteady, staggering breath.

"Sherlock?" He called gently, but the man didn't respond.

He walked forward slowly, like he might with a wild animal: careful not to spook him, but there was no attention on him. There were flecks of the same red liquid, on the floor, on Sherlock's face, all of them irregular and very vivid against his skin. His eyes were crazed and dark, with puffy smudges beneath them, and his lips were parted in what almost looked like an endless gasp. He avoided the glass and took Sherlock's hand, leading him to the sofa.

He followed meekly, hand completely limp but shaking in a barely contained manner.

It was only when he knelt in front of Sherlock, and clasped his own hands over the trembling ones, that recognition came over Sherlock, his unfocused eyes suddenly finding John's and a look of utter helplessness overtaking him. He smoothed his fingers over Sherlock's wrist and attempted to find a steady pulse, having to restart twice, and only coming to the conclusion that it was elevated in what seemed like shock.

"Sherlock, what was in the glass?" He pulled out his mobile and flicked through the options, until he could adjust the brightness to full. He took his hands from Sherlock's and tried to ignore how, for a moment, they followed him. With one hand, he tilted Sherlock's chin, and, with the other, he flicked the light from his screen directly and indirectly into Sherlock's eye. At least his pupil response was normal.

"Sherlock, I need you to tell me what was in the glass." Sherlock's mouth worked like a fish, and a distressed noise left him. "Is it blood?" Sherlock nodded. "Is it yours?" He shook his head. "I'm going to get some kitchen roll to wipe it off, okay?"

He was met with another sluggish nod, and he observed how Sherlock's gaze dropped to his shaking hands, only to have them shake harder. He avoided the spill on the floor and went straight for the kitchen roll on top of the fridge. He ripped two long strands of it, and ran one of them under the tap, before returning to his previous spot.

With infinite care, he wiped the blood away with the wet cloth, before going over it with the dry. He placed the used kitchen roll on the floor and covered Sherlock's forehead with his palm. He didn't seem too warm.

"_John_," Sherlock managed to choke out.

He patiently hushed him. "Have you been sleeping?" No. "Can you tell me the last time you had a full night's rest?" No again. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Sherlock tried to find his voice again. "I - I miscalculated._ I_ miscalculated."

His tone was disbelieving, as though the idea that he could have done something wrong was unheard of. John took his hands again. "Come on, you need sleep."

* * *

Shaking. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. The tremors had already made it too hard for him to continue working at his microscope. His body remained completely intransigent, and he had to move onto larger equipment to handle. His hand was around the beaker of blood, seeing as he was hardly coherent enough to use the pipette to separate equal amounts of blood onto the slides, but he needed to move it to the fridge, at least.

It's when the beaker fell from his hand, and he staggered backwards, waist hitting the sink edge, that he realised that, somewhere along the line, his thought process has led him astray, because he _never_ dropped things – never lost control over his body in such a spectacular manner. It just didn't happen. His body wasn't meant to betray him like that. There was a line of control that he always managed to keep functioning, and it was disintegrating, and he couldn't help but feel both absolutely horrified and completely terrified. His body had never been that defective, that quickly. His insomnia had utterly violated his sense of decorum, and he could feel the shock spreading all the way down to his fingertips.

The beaker was ruined as well, and the blood was completely wasted. He could see both of them moving further away and briefly wondered if it was a lead up to a collapse.

Then it hit him, and all he could think was, _anchor, stability, human, hands, _John_._

John was kneeling before him, hands clasped over his own. There were fingers dancing over his wrist and words spilling on his deaf ears. It was happening, but it was not registering, the information not being processed meticulously in the way he expected it to be.

The pressure left his hands, and he could hardly describe the feeling that passed through him, at that moment. It was a strong, paralytic fear, and it made him feel so weak, that he instantly despised it. He needed help but did not want it, two sides clashing so loudly in his brain that it hurt.

Light from John's phone filled his vision, and, somewhere deep down, he was commending the doctor for being so stunningly calm in this situation – him relying on his phone to check pupil dilation was both ingenious and laudable. The fingers that held his face left, with more words filling the gap. He had begun to recognise words, by now, seeing how they function to give meaning and purpose. John was an anchor of steady hands and practised composure, his eyes had their own panicked quality to them, darting over his frame and absorbing details.

The Blood: no, it wasn't his; he could hardly remember why he had it. He knew it was for an experiment, however, there was no grasp on what the experiment was. His attempts at vocalising this fell completely short, and John gave him a quick, understanding look, before disappearing. He glared down at his offending hands, but they only moved with more intensity, betraying his body yet again. His body was betraying his mind; his mind was betraying his body. _Is this solely the addiction or a combination of withdrawal and insomnia? Could it just be insomnia on its own?_ It was unlikely; it must be a combination of the two, wreaking havoc upon him.

A damp cloth was pressed against his face, and the dripping water quickly wiped away. His voice cracked, when he fumbled with John's name, but the man didn't press him for more; simple shakes and nods of the head translated well enough.

"Can you tell me what happened?" John asked, and his hate for the situation tripled, and then quadrupled, when he was forced to admit that he miscalculated and his voice sounded astoundingly lost.

Again hands reached for him, the grip firm and comforting, in a way he hadn't felt before. John was exceedingly slow, in the way he pulled him up, reassurance clear in his expression. There was a stagger in his step, however, John didn't move any closer, simply holding his upper arm and guiding him past the spill on the floor. Sherlock was grateful for the fact that John hadn't dramatically draped one of his arms over his shoulder; it would have been even more humiliating.

A jolt ran through his body as John kicked open the door to his room and guided him to his bed.

Frustration won over yet again. Didn't John understand? Sleep was not finding him. If it was as simple as lying down on any comfortable horizontal surface, and closing his eyes, then life would have been infinitely easier.

"Can I undress you?" John asked, as he pushed him into a sitting position.

_Oh, dress clothes, of course_. It was trivial to him, whether or not his clothes rumpled, as he attempted sleep, but since John was making the effort, he nodded. John's hands were practised and efficient, as they unlaced his shoes and move them to the side. He moved up to the shirt buttons, giving Sherlock a questioning look – an extra quick ask for permission, just in case he was overstepping any silent boundaries. He nodded but ignored the extra tension that seemed to rise from the move. John soldiered past it, and, less than a minute later, he gingerly placed the shirt on the bed.

There was an innocent touch at one of his more brutal knife wounds. "How many times have you been to hospital?" John breathed, and he shivered. "Do you think you could get your trousers off yourself?"

_Blushing. John is blushing_. He gave a semi-confident yes, but his fingers were clumsy at the buckle.

Internally, he cursed himself again.

If his actions hadn't been so sexualised, the morning before last, then it wouldn't have been an issue. There would have been no awkwardness, on either side. If he'd ignored John's attraction to him, rather than calling it out, then they could have stayed in a comfortable zone of companionship. Now, he couldn't help but picture this sexually.

John was on his knees and swatting his hands away, undoing the buckle on his own. He had a steely look of determination, and – _God _– his body completely misread it. Mycroft knew that he'd used sex as a distraction before, and thus had provided him with his preferred gender, and someone who both admired his intelligence and had their own. If it pleased him then he could bed John, and then throw him away; a quick fix that would undoubtedly feel pleasurable and satisfying. Maybe he could even enter a sexual relationship with John and quite clearly state that it was only for the sex – no strings attached. John's attraction would be satisfied, and Sherlock's boredom would be erased. If John developed stronger emotions, then he would be discarded.

John was pulling the leather out of its loop.

But what if he and John entered a relationship like those that normal people indulged in? The only difference would be monogamy, which was a welcome thing, seeing as he didn't particularly enjoy sharing, and romanticism. In truth, it would be a more intense version of what they had currently. The idea would be less offensive to him, if it wasn't so blindingly obvious that losing John would actually be disappointing. There was no guarantee that, if John left, he would be gifted with another doctor who would work just as well.

There was a small clinking sound as the belt was pulled aside. He was about to suggest him trying again, when John disregarded all previous caution and, with the speed of a desperate man, undid both his button and fly.

"There!" John exclaimed, and leapt away as though he'd been burnt. "You can just wiggle out now."

John pointedly looked at the wall, as he shimmied out of his trousers. He threw them onto the floor, with the rest of his clothes, and shoved his blanket down weakly, before sliding in. He was thrown a slightly exasperated "Careful!" when John saw him standing on his own. Once he'd settled in beneath the covers, John patted them down around him, tucking him in all the way to his chin and chuckling at the comical sight he posed. He walked across the room and pulled a chair over, before sitting at his bedside.

"Close your eyes," John commanded. He shoved his hands under the pillow and readjusted himself until the position was vaguely comfortable, before complying. "Good. Now, I don't want you to try and anticipate my next move or over-think anything. I'm not going to do anything bad, so just trust me."

This wasn't something he liked: deprivation of one of his key senses. Sure enough, he often walked around in full or semi-darkness, but had been something completely different. If John were to suddenly take out a knife and drive it into him, then it would be his own fault. This was him at the mercy of John – not trust of any kind. He didn't trust John. He didn't trust anyone hired by his brother to provide any sort of supervision or long-term help. It was more than likely that John was being paid to report back to Mycroft.

A long finger drifted down the length of his nose, "nose."

His thoughts scattered. The word had been so soft that he'd hardly heard it, and he ordered his mind's whirring to come down a little. _Were these words random?_

Apparently so, because the next word was "mandible", followed by a light tap to his jawbone.

He squirmed, and John hushed him. He was being fed basic human anatomy and feather light touches. Everything was done in an undertone that forced him to focus solely on John. His silence was rewarded with another touch, this time with a hint of a blunt nail, most likely index finger, and the word "cheekbone". His senses were opened completely to John and shut to everything else.

Two fingers drifted over his face now, one over each eyelid, "oculus."

One finger pressed against his brow, "os frontale."

It was ever changing: the length of the touch; the wording used, either medical or general; and the time between each touch. The only thing that remained constant was John's tone and how softly he spoke. It took effort to hear what was being said, and it dawned on him that the purpose wasn't to understand, but to feel. John didn't want his mind to focus on anything in particular, but instead for him to lay there in a state of calm bliss. This would be the presence in his mind – no actual thoughts cluttering mind space, but just him and this strange method of sleep-inducing that John had thought up.

Once his breathing became deeper, John's pattern changed to a constant susurrus of words and breath-forming, mindless white noise for him. The words no longer correlated with what was being touched, because it was just his hair being brushed away from his forehead.

This was John willingly touching him: warm, human John Watson touching cold, sociopath Sherlock Holmes, and it was absolutely gorgeous.

* * *

**AN:** Fun fact: I also have insomnia and sure as hell did not have my own personal John Watson to help *silently seethes* As usual, if there's anything wrong then feel free to point it out.

Oh and if you're wondering where I got the inspiration for the blood+panicked!Sherlock scene originally from then message me. FF won't let me leave the link here *silently rages* but I can send it to you :)


	6. Chapter 5

Thank you so much for the positive response last chapter! I would like to introduce my lovely new beta and britpicker, _gbheart_. She's been helping me with my grammatical errors and I'll be uploading the edited versions of the previous chapters soon. Also, I'm going to up John's age to 28. By doing this then he'll already have graduated from uni and will just be finishing the last of his training.

* * *

_**Chapter 5 -** Power_

* * *

Sherlock was a walking paradox; his entire being was one big contradiction. There was a visible diffusion of tension, once he fell asleep. The mechanical man that had worked methodically was entirely loose-limbed now. He didn't necessarily look more innocent, though there was something very delicate about the way he'd tucked his hands under the pillow, but he did look more humanised. The stoic look was erased, and his face was transformed into an empty page, his lips parted in constant breathing and face devoid of any knowledge of the incredibly naïve position he was in.

Somehow, he got the feeling that Sherlock didn't usually associate with human needs like sleep or food. He seemed to fluctuate between two states: not bored and bored. What was it like in Sherlock's mind? How was information stored? What was considered important and what was discarded? There was the constant feeling of being on a different page with Sherlock – that Sherlock was more efficient and was seeing more than he was. To see Sherlock doing something as normal as sleeping was refreshing. The uptight, well-dressed man, who had played violin beautifully and engulfed him with a whirlwind of intelligence, was lost to the basic need of sleep now.

Sherlock suffered from fear like the rest of humanity; he couldn't rise above the rest of the population, like Mycroft said. There was no doubt that Sherlock would absolutely despise the fact that he had been placed in such a weak position. John himself didn't like being placed in positions where he was disadvantaged or sick, so, for someone like Sherlock, it would be a complete loss of control on his body and mind. The way Sherlock had hidden his hands and tucked some of his face beneath the blanket so that John couldn't observe him was telling.

Sherlock had spoken of miscalculation. It wasn't miscalculation; it was a simple mistake, and he understood why Sherlock hadn't texted to tell him. The way Sherlock said it hadn't made it seem like human error but rather like a malicious virus had infected a computer, a miscalculation with the anti-virus software chosen. Whatever Sherlock had felt it wasn't something he normally experienced, and he was obviously determined to avoid it.

He took Sherlock's clothes and hung them over the back of the chair, before leaving the room and cleaning up the bloodied floor. He disposed of the still-wet kitchen roll and brought his suitcase inside to rest near the sofa, before closing the door. Certainly not the welcome he was expecting to his new home.

He filled a glass of water and placed it on the bedside table, next to the card he'd left for Sherlock. It was simple – no extravagant colours or embellishments, like glitter glue. Looking at the experience Sherlock had just had, the card seemed extraordinarily lonely standing there. Harry always had a couple of cards, no matter how badly she screwed herself over; even Clara sent her own terse cards through. For Sherlock to have nobody, except him, was really just sad.

John pulled the extra blanket, which was folded neatly at the end of the bed, onto himself, before sitting down and propping his feet on the bed's edge. Maybe it wasn't necessary, sitting here and watching over Sherlock's sleeping form, but it felt right. When Sherlock woke up, he deserved to know that someone actually cared.

* * *

What John hadn't factored into the equation was that, eventually, he would probably fall asleep, too. The chair might not be the most comfortable thing he'd ever slept on, but apparently his body didn't care, because there he was, disorientated and confused but most certainly just waking up. There was a very wild screech from behind him, and he flailed madly, suddenly wide awake. It was one brutally piercing sound followed by another, and he abandoned the warmth of the blanket covering him to go and investigate.

The lack of a sleeping Sherlock was both suspicious and condemning.

Once he stepped past the kitchen's boundaries, he found the source of the noise easily.

The same violin which Sherlock had coaxed him to sleep with was now pulling him awake. A barely contained look of contempt greeted him as Sherlock spat his name out in a harsh greeting. The tone was about as gentle as the acidic juice of a lemon in someone's eye. John sighed and went to put the kettle on.

The promise of tea and coffee did nothing for Sherlock, who followed him into the kitchen, bow still in hand and violin in place. He made himself coffee and Sherlock tea; there was no need to introduce more caffeine than strictly necessary into Sherlock's system. He slid the tea towards Sherlock, who regarded him with a raised brow and an incredibly childish increase in volume.

"I see you slept well," John said in a conversational tone, and gave Sherlock his own look over the rim of his mug.

John was amused when Sherlock stalked away into his bedroom and more or less slammed the door.

* * *

Sherlock didn't know whether he wanted to attack John or Mycroft more. While John was the spy who had seen him in weakness, it would be Mycroft who would use that information against him the most. John had been a stable presence during his… _moment_ but, in this case, that hardly mattered. What mattered was that he absolutely despised that withdrawal and sleeplessness had forced their way onto him and worked their malevolent wills upon him so speedily. John had seen him in a complete lack of control, and that made them stand on two very different platforms of power.

He despised being overpowered in a situation. If he stood above someone else, due to the fact that he was more intelligent, then that couldn't be helped. That he naturally viewed himself better than most of the masses was his own perception – a perception that most people did not want to conform with. Being undermined by the knowledge that he would have more episodes like yesterday's was frustrating. John had seen him in a position that he'd previously shut even Mycroft out of.

Not only that, but John had slept by his bedside, as though he was legitimately concerned. There was no reason for John to have stayed. His information on Sherlock's episode was gathered and his concerns eased as soon as Sherlock fell asleep. It was either that John expected him to wake up mere minutes later, or he really did feel some sort worry. If John felt that it was his duty as a doctor to stay, then that was to be expected. John, from what he had gathered so far, was altruistic and empathetic, both traits that might compel him to stay and watch over him.

If John had stayed out of friendship and actual care, then he was uncharacteristically stumped. While John had admitted to friendship, and was undoubtedly attracted to him, it was completely new to have someone show concern in such a truthful manner. This was something he had no precedent for. Under the strange circumstance that John would fall ill, would it be his duty to stand vigil by his bedside? His knowledge on this was lacking immensely. The amount of times he'd observed human interaction for patterns did not really prepare him for the immensity of another presence living with him. If he continued like this, was it likely that John would leave? It appeared not. John had been sarcastic with him this morning, not insulted nor angry.

As inconceivably nice as it felt to have John consider him as a friend, he wanted to know what it would be like to see him lose control in some manner. Purposely making John ill would be both traceable and insipid, and making John angry could go badly, if the man took offense. What tensions did John already have? He didn't get along with his drunken sister, he had the constant stress from his studies, and there was the already a fairly strong sexual tension between the two of them.

_Yes_. John was so in control over his body; he wanted Sherlock but did not let that affect their relations much. How long would it take for that self-control to shatter? How would John respond under that type of pressure? Would he stand shock still, like he had in the kitchen, or flee immediately? Would he snap and respond to the signals his body was sending or will it all away in an austere manner? If sex followed this experiment, then he had no complaints. It was unlikely that John would anger over something as simple as the want for sex. His own views on the matter had no merit – it was John who would either reject it or accept it.

Either way, Mycroft likely anticipated this. If Mycroft thought that John would leave quickly, then he wouldn't have invested in him. Anything to do with his brother was spun in an intricate web of intense planning, well thought out strategies and plays of power. His brother's lack of care for privacy was both highly annoying and, at times, regretfully useful. Had Mycroft felt his plan would fail, he wouldn't have laid the foundation.

"Sherlock," John shouted, and rapped on his door. "I'm going down for tea with Mrs Hudson. Is there anything you want while I'm out?"

He didn't answer. Did John ask because it was necessary, or because he honestly wanted to know?

The quiet was broken by a sighed word from John and the sound of the front door both opening and closing. He retreated from his seat on the bed, to silently sneak around the kitchen. His cup of tea sat abandoned on the countertop next to the kettle, while John's rested on its side in the sink. He emptied his own cup, in a fit of pique, before moving himself to the sofa and settling himself.

* * *

Tea with Mrs Hudson was enlightening, in its own special way. Explanations on the youngest Holmes were welcome, however, when the 'I'm glad Sherlock has found himself such a nice man' conversation came up, he was stuck trying to assure her that they were not dating. She gave him a conspiratorial wink and patted his knee with vigour, before handing him another biscuit.

He grinned as she dusted some icing sugar off the front of his jumper and shooed him out.

"Don't let a little tiff stop you!" She called out pleasantly.

When John opened the door, he was prepared to have to storm over to Sherlock's room and forcibly get him to sit and eat. He stood there, for a second, and put on an exasperated expression at the sight of Sherlock sprawled upside-down, on the sofa. His body looked contorted, with his head on the floor and his feet rather high on the wall. Cranium was seated on his sternum, and Sherlock's hands caressed the different ridges in the bone. He turned his head in recognition, at John's presence, but offered no explanation.

"I brought up some Clingfilm from Mrs Hudson's," he offered, and lifted the box into Sherlock's vision. All was still, except for the movement of fingers. For a second, he thought he was imagining it, but it became clear that Sherlock was tracing the same patterns he had had traced on his own skin yesterday. "I'll just do it myself then," he muttered, when Sherlock didn't move.

He repackaged Sherlock's dust accumulation experiment and tucked it away, before heading for the takeaway.

"It's gone off already."

"And you didn't think to throw it away?"

No response. Apparently not._ At least the git told me._

He threw it away, before shuffling around the kitchen looking for a frying pan. He could make eggs for the both of them but wasn't too keen on experimenting on new cooking surfaces. It took a minute of unsavoury clattering about on his part, but he soon let out a little victorious 'whoop!' after pulling it out of hiding. Apparently, the racket he was making brought Sherlock out of his own hiding because, a moment later, he was curiously watching over John's shoulder as he scrambled the eggs. The look on his face was a little solemn.

"What do you do then?" John asked, trying to engage Sherlock once more. "I know you're a detective, but there must be more to it."

It was the right way to go because the frown disappeared. "Consulting detective, actually." Sherlock said with pride. "When the police are out of their depth, which, consequently, is almost always, they come to me for assistance."

"Ever get up to any chases, like the ones on telly?"

"Occasionally, though, as of recently, everything has slowed down quite horrifically." Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder and sighed plaintively. He jumped at the point of contact but didn't move away from his watchful position over the stove.

"Well doesn't that sound boring?" He noted, in an amused tone.

Sherlock made another deep, sad sound and stole the fork from John, before poking at the eggs. He gave up, a moment later, and dropped his hand to the side. "You have absolutely no idea."

He got the feeling that Sherlock was pouting and wondered what he had been like as a child. What sort of eccentricities did he get up to? There wasn't anything in the flat that looked to be sentimental, other than Cranium, who had been a gift. Either Mycroft still had the bulk of Sherlock's things, or Sherlock just didn't have such sort of memorabilia from his younger years. It was possible that Sherlock just didn't have anything conventional from his childhood for John to pick out – things like a favourite blanket or stuffed toy. It was a bit of a shame, really. Could Sherlock figure out his childhood, as he had done with his current life?

"Budge over," he said, and quickly found plates for the both for them. A moment later, Sherlock returned to the spot on his shoulder. "Any reason eggs are so fascinating?"

"I deleted cooking again, now that you're my 'caretaker'."

"Deleted?"

He grabbed another fork and took the plates of food to the armchairs. He changed direction for the sofa, once he realised that Sherlock had, at some point, grabbed hold of the corner of his jumper and didn't seem keen on letting go. Their knees knocked together, and Sherlock took a very small, controlled nibble at his food. It didn't taste bad, but Sherlock only took a few more bites before pushing his plate away. If he wasn't here, then he doubted Sherlock would even have deigned to make food. By eating a little, it seemed as though Sherlock was trying to placate him or distract him from conversing about yesterday.

He gave Sherlock the benefit of a full minute of quiet eating, before broaching the subject.

"How often does it get that bad?" The way Sherlock went suddenly tense meant that he understood what John was asking about.

Sherlock moved away from him. "It doesn't. Usually I crash after some sort of rush – it never has the chance to reach that point."

John nodded. His boredom, bad habits, and insomnia were all tied together in a series of foreign knots. When he was bored, he would give himself some sort of rush to pass the time and wear him down. Afterwards, during the come down, he would be sluggish and would probably find it easier to sleep. There was no doubt that Sherlock did as much as he could to avoid both boredom and insomnia. The two must be a constant presence for him to be driven to the point of cocaine.

"How long did you sleep?"

"Just under five hours."

Sherlock's irritation this morning made sense now. Even after all of his body's warnings about lack of sleep, he hadn't been able to get all the sleep needed. A desperate need for sleep like that couldn't be erased with five hours. Five hours of sleep might be okay for Sherlock, if it happened regularly, but that was certainly not the case.

He pushed his plate from his lap and patted it. Sherlock gave him an incredulous look.

"Lie down. It's not even ten yet – I'll wake you up, if something interesting happens."

Hesitation slowed all of his movements. There was an air of caution about him, as he moved. He was peering through his lashes, at John's face, and frowned, as he placed his head on John's thighs.

"Relax," John laughed. "It's not like I'm going to film this and send it to all of your contacts." A dissolve in tension followed, and John shifted slightly. Did Sherlock think that that was on his agenda? Was this sort of tenderness unexpected to the point where it had to have a motive as explanation? He didn't care what sort of warnings he'd been given against Sherlock, this was _sad_. People weren't meant to question things like touching. Touching was a basic human thing, like talking or eating. Sherlock might not need the three of them constantly, but he shouldn't feel mistrustful or uncomfortable when they were offered.

He didn't tell Sherlock to close his eyes this time, just ran a single hand through the short, black curls.

"My mother used to do this for me." John breathed softly.

"She's dead," Sherlock said without pause.

There was no need to answer; Sherlock already knew that he was right. He brushed a strand from Sherlock's forehead and rolled it between his fingers. It was his mum who would sit down with him, when he couldn't sleep, and do this: just card her fingers through his hair and talk. It was comforting in a way that he could hardly replicate, but he tried to anyway. He didn't mind doing this for Sherlock. He used to do it for his sister, until she blearily waved him away. Once he told Clara to do it, she had taken over for him, his presence unneeded. Now with Clara gone, Harry was back to drinking, but this time he couldn't cleanly slide back in and leave peace offerings. Now, there was too much between them; the water was murky with unsaid things.

Sherlock's eyes slipped half-shut, and he released a groan when John massaged the bump of a scar on his scalp. If Sherlock didn't usually let go around people, then this was something unique for him.

"You have questions," he said, in an undertone.

_Enough for a lifetime, actually_. "You said you deleted cooking?"

"This," he pointed at the spot where John's fingers had lingered a second ago, "is my hard drive and, unlike most people, I feel it completely unneeded to clutter it with rubbish. Periodically, I delete things; any scraps of unwanted information are cast off. Naturally, I tend to forget things, however, using this method, I minimise that to only the things that wouldn't have been required anyway."

_Bullshit_. People couldn't just get rid of blocks of information like that. Sherlock couldn't just think to himself 'Well now, John's here so I may as well just conveniently forget cooking!' What could he even call this? Self-induced amnesia? This was bloody mad.

"So, what do you delete?" He asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Sherlock hummed, as though the question required a brief period of consideration. "Popular culture, mostly. Anything that does not impact my work or is so blindingly obvious that I'll figure it out anyway." He searched John's expression. "You find the idea of me deleting things to be distasteful: why?"

"How can you decide what's important or not, when you don't even understand the concept yourself?"

Was this why Sherlock seemed so ignorant about certain things? People learned from their mistakes. If Sherlock had blundered in the public eye and felt it a pointless waste of memory, then he would have deleted it. Was this the reason Sherlock had so little experience in something as basic as touching? Was something as basic as touching really to be discredited? What would happen if Sherlock deleted some massive chunk of memory? Would there still be imprints of the knowledge left in his mind, or would it be a clean cut that could be packed with new information straight away? Would Sherlock ever delete him?

Sherlock seemed to ponder John's words, his fingers coming back up beneath his chin and some of the strength returning to his limp limbs.

"You're making me question my own thought process." He sounded peeved.

John snorted. Something like this _needed_ to be questioned.

"Do you know where the Olympics are this year?"

Very slowly, Sherlock shook his head. He seemed ready to flee, poised to get up and stride away, if this progressed past his invisible line of comfort. Someone as hugely smart as Sherlock didn't know that the Olympics were in his own city? What a perfect, flawed, and _stupid_ thing to delete. Yes, it would take seconds to find that information out again, but why delete it in the first place? Sherlock could recognise where the shaking hands of an alcoholic had left their marks but couldn't answer the one question that nearly everyone else could. It boggled his mind.

He stilled his hand and, instead, just let it rest over Sherlock's forehead, his fingers just touching the edge of one brow. "That's really quite something."

Sherlock 'hmm'd' in response. The man loosened again. It was interesting to be able to feel how he calmed into a look of stoic tranquillity. Their conversation was completely cut off, when John's phone rang. In the peace that they had just renewed, it sounded just as shrill as the Sherlock's impromptu angry violin-playing. He ruffled Sherlock's hair in an apology, before moving away to pull his phone out of his pocket.

* * *

Sherlock was displeased with the lack of John. The last spree of constant contact between the two of them would desensitise John – make him less likely to flee at the slightest sexualised touch. Not only that, but the steadying touch of John's hands was heady. They were warm, the pads of John's fingers delicate on his bare skin and a tad rougher on his scalp. John had clinical hands too, just in a different way.

Whereas Sherlock's hands were clinical, because he used them to inspect, to gather evidence, and feel the touch of Nitrile gloves on his skin. John's hands were clinical, because they brushed over damaged skin with care and sought to find injury. John's hands had carefully ran repeatedly over a raised patch of skin on his skull, which had come about when he'd had a bottle smashed against him to try and overpower him in a fight. Lestrade had had a fit, when he saw the mat of blood coating the back of his head and trickling down his collar. Now only a jagged scar remained – another mark on his skin that John had observed.

He was annoyed that some _friend_ of John's had called and was asking for his presence to 'catch up'. Even worse was the fact that said friend wanted to see John's new residency. There was something very hopeful about the look on John's face, when he asked if Sherlock wanted to meet Mike, one of his oldest friends from high school.

Mike, as undoubtedly banal as he would be, was going to be a window of opportunity. The chance to see what characteristics John looked for in a friend, discover casual titbits of information about John, and, above all, the chance to stretch his bored mind. Someone new to deduce, a real life unpredictability that could respond in unexpected manners. Some people told him to piss off, whereas others settled for a more physical response, like slapping or punching.

And then John Watson told him that he was amazing.

John Watson, the outlier who decided to set a new standard for himself. John, the man making tea in the kitchen and bustling around with half-muttered comments on his breath. John was morbidly normal: reading him was remarkably easy. Reading most people was something as easy as breathing – something as _necessary_ as breathing. All the facts had poured off John like overflowing water, and yet he couldn't help but marvel at how remarkably different the man was for just having moved in and accepted his presence.

"Sherlock, are you trying to grow mould with these?" John lifted up the plate of bread, and he nodded. He'd check the bread again tomorrow but doubted there would be any change, by then. Preservatives in bread had made the experiment a whole less volatile and prone to less vigorous growth.

He pulled out his phone and aimlessly tapped away. John had been exasperated, when he explained the concept of deletion, doubly so when he confessed to not knowing where the Olympics were this year. The event would have to be near them, for John to be so distressed at his lack of comprehension.

Ah, the London 2012 Summer Olympics. Yes, that explained quite a bit.

This would be common knowledge to everyone, even his homeless network would recognise the significance of this event. It would be expected for him to know this – to know about it in detail, even. The same reason he should know about this was precisely why he shouldn't.

Hypothetically, if somehow such an event was to be tied in with a murder, everyone with two brain cells to rub against each other would recognise what was being alluded to. If they didn't, when he rattled of his deductions, then someone else should hopefully pick up on it. The last resort would be he himself to research his accumulated data and come to the conclusion that it was to do with the Olympics. If John looked at it the same way he did, then there was no doubt in his mind that he would understand. The requirement of this knowledge was non-existent, the clutter of it making a mess in his mind palace.

John had no knowledge of how closely linked deletion and his mind palace were, did he? An explanation of how the two worked in harmony would likely put John at ease and stop his questionable worry.

He continued his musings, until the doorbell rang, and the rhythmic press of footsteps on the stairs had him peering at the door. It was vexing how both the front door and the door to their flat were kept under lock and key. As much as he craved another shot of cocaine, he wasn't about to make a daring escape, with Mycroft's surveillance obsessively tracking him. That would, in Mycroft's eyes, be stupidly entertaining. Mycroft's fascination with human stupidity could be drawn directly to a child's pleasure at seeing a hamster spin in its wheel for minutes on end.

John walked brightly over to the door, quickly shooting him a look that told him to behave.

Once the door was open, it was like taking a whiff of cigarette smoke. Letting his mind free to feed off the information being given to him was satisfying. It had a subtle pleasure to it.

Mike was a little shorter than John, had a thicker, more muscular build that suggested he played some type of sport, and he was both older than John and was already employed. He was easygoing, had no partner, worked with a fair amount of paperwork, and tried to exercise regularly to keep his current state of fitness.

He leapt at the chance to shake Mike's hand: right-handed, with ink smudged on the side of his hand, and well kept short nails. Quite a few professions required a short nail regulation to be followed. In Mike's case, he either worked in the food industry or in the medicine industry. Judging by the close relationship between him and John, medicine seemed more likely.

"Sherlock!" Mike said with a warm smile, clasping his hand a little tighter. "Nice to meet John's new partner."

So now Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Mike felt he and John were in a sexual relationship. How pleasantly surprising.

John made a rather awkward sounding cough and shook his head, before shooing them over to the tea he'd prepared.

"Any chance you know Molly Hooper?" Mike asked him, and gratefully took a cup from John.

_Ah, Molly: timid, impressionable, and incredibly easy to manipulate._ Her older sister worked in the morgue and quite often put up a reasonable fight when he asked for any limbs. It was fortunate that she was far more lax about giving limbs to Molly, who then gave them to Sherlock. The length of the process was oftentimes frustrating, however, once Molly took the position at St Bart's Morgue, he'd have virtually free access to whatever anatomy he pleased. He'd already paid back the favour he owed Mycroft for certifying she would gain a position there.

"Yes," he said, and John observed the both of them curiously.

Mike frowned, "You should be a bit nicer to her – the girl's head over heels for you."

He made a displeased sound. Molly, as meek as she was, did in fact have an enormous crush on him. While it did make the manipulation easier, it was also uncomfortable. He disliked having her pine after him, for the sole reason that it made her both flirtatious and unstable. Her attempts at gaining his attentions were weak – her vocalised attempts even more so. His constant rejections often made her sulk and attempt to either avoid him or stand against him in the fight for body parts. If only she felt for him sexually, then he may have dealt with her, but the romantic implications that she sought after were most certainly halting that.

He shrugged.

Mike sensed that that topic of conversation was over, taking a rapid sip from his tea before launching into a recount of his new job with John. As expected, Mike worked in medicine.

There was some general prattle about Rugby, which he tuned out, followed by the issue of one of their old friends having been recently widowed. The only thing that was interesting was watching John for blips in his interaction with Mike. He was visibly uncomfortable when the topic of relationships came up, his body language turning more defensive than it had been previously. The uncertainty of what stood between them and the allusions that they were dating had John worrying his lip.

A moment later, he caught himself wanting to categorise John's taste.

_Want_. Now it was clear that he wanted John. While he'd previously only viewed John as aesthetically pleasing, it was apparent that the attraction had developed into wanting John on a stronger level. While he'd never subjected himself to sex without mutual attraction, this was different. Different because, if he wanted to bed John straight away, he could, whereas that was not the case. What he wanted was the slow burn of tension to push John into taking the first step. If he took John, then victory would be too easy. To manipulate John into making the initial move would be a subtle and silent victory, on his part, and it was a chance to see how John responded. He was a tenacious and, when necessary, a patient person; however long it took did not matter. In the end, he would have his way.

In the end he would have John Watson.

* * *

**AN:** I'm thinking about opening about a poll for you to tell me which character you prefer to be 'dominant'. There's a lot of fics with top!John, a couple with top!Sherlock and some fics have them switching between 'roles'. I'm not trying to say that relationships are stereotypical with one person topping and one person bottoming, I'm just curious as to what you prefer.


	7. Chapter 6

Hello! Nearly all of the previous chapters have been updated with the beta'd versions. I've fixed up a couple of things as well, so you're welcome to go and take a peek at that if you'd like. Chapter beta'd by _gbheart_ :)

* * *

_**Chapter 6 -** Mind Palace_

* * *

John was hyperaware of the way Sherlock continuously watched him, as he directed Mike around the place. It was uncomfortable, and he could feel Mike's future queries scratching away at his composure. There was no way that he could deny Sherlock's unwavering gaze, and it was certainly not helping his continuous protests that they weren't dating. He kept sending imploring looks to Sherlock, who only raised an eyebrow in a sarcastic innocent look, hardly even bothering to hide his staring or tone it down. He just ended up directing Mike into the kitchen and away from Sherlock's line of sight.

"Seems you've got yourself a little crush." Mike said with a little grin.

John sighed and shoved his empty cup of tea into the sink. "There's a difference between a crush and someone who just wants to be annoying."

Mike gave him an unconvinced look; there would be no talking him out of it now. Mike adored it when people got together – it was something their social circle often laughed about fondly. He knew Sherlock could probably hear everything that they were saying, if he focused hard enough, and wondered if the man was amused at the idea. It was a fairly big thing to call straight away, and he couldn't see or interpret things like Sherlock did. Lingering stares could be general platonic interest, not romantic in any way. If Sherlock wanted something, then he had to let John know.

* * *

Sherlock was at his wits end, by the time Mike left. He was itching to do something that John would consider ungracious in front of a guest, the idea that John might leave him for the rest of the day in complete boredom being the only thing restraining him. The small talk Mike had tried to engage him in had been terrible, and it had taken quite a bit of self control to not make a snide remark about the man's increasing waistline. John hovered over him, looking down on his sprawled out form on the sofa with an uncertain expression.

"You could've tried to find some common ground with him."

"We breathed the same air: fairly common, don't you think?"

John smiled weakly and sat down next to his feet. "You should be happy that he's fairly used to eccentric people by now."

Sherlock shook his head. "Why would I be happy? He treated me in a plebeian manner. I, personally, would have preferred some sort of verbal sparring or conflict to occur. He's no use to me if he's boring."

John considered his words, mulling them over in his head and poking him in the foot to show that he should make some room. He grudgingly placed his feet on John's lap, and the man stroked lazily over them, fingers following the curve of his foot. This sort of touching was welcome; he could view John's face clearly, this time. There was no imminent threat of him collapsing from sleeplessness – no ulterior motive for John to be forced to gently stroke over his skin. The action was mindless, and, when John realised what he was doing, his hand stilled, and he shot Sherlock a brief, questioning glance.

He wriggled his toes in acceptance of more petting.

"What am I going to do with you?" John murmured, his fingers dipping under his toes and running over his bare feet. The action would have been ticklish, if it weren't for the fact that he'd learnt how his mind could cut off the sensation and stop it from becoming a loss of his control. "We're both going to go stir crazy, at this rate."

Very, _very_ true. His game/experiment concerning the nature of his and John's relationship could not possibly take up all his time, at this pace; everything was progressing frustratingly slow. If he simply sat up and pressed his lips against John's, then the distraction would begin, the friction of skin on skin and the inevitable groans of pleasure filling their senses. There was no doubt in his mind that sex with John would be incredibly satisfying, yet the idea of just taking him was lacking in so many ways. If he wanted a quick shag, then Mycroft could organise that for him: someone to take to his room and fuck. The simplicity of it was intolerable. He was desirable, and he got what he wanted because of it, but, in turn, it took away the challenge of bedding someone.

No, this was something that he would manipulate out of John. Whatever annoying morals that stopped John from taking the first move, he would have to conquer from the sidelines – no direct contact from him to change the results. Once the ball started rolling, it would become infinitely easier to direct John onto the right path, the tedium being replaced by actual thought, on his part. He would have to be careful, though. It would not do for John to find out that he was a mere pawn.

The pattern of John's hands was broken, an increase of pressure on the arch of his foot successfully pulling him out of his thoughts. Would John eventually earn a room in his mind palace? The man had earned himself a bedside table in his 'miscellaneous' room, so far. Most people were sheets of paper on the floor, some crumpled and others pristine. John had risen above the easy-to-dispose-of paper already; he owned a piece of furniture singularly on his own. That he actually considered giving John a room was an astonishing leap made very quickly, even kind Mrs Hudson hadn't been given that privilege.

"I don't understand how you think: why you need to delete." John said truthfully.

"I wouldn't expect you to."

John snorted, as though he had said something funny, before sobering up. "Could you explain it to me?"

He was slightly taken aback. The few that asked to see the logic behind his deductions often stopped there – no one had inquired as to how his mind actually worked. He felt like a cat, preening and gracefully showing off. Mycroft knew about how he thought, only from his own gathered information, and no one else felt the need to discover anything below the surface.

The pleasantness was washed away, a moment later. Could this be something Mycroft asked for John to investigate? That didn't make sense; his brother knew more about him than anyone else. This was something he would certainly understand on some level, so why would he require more information?

He regarded John suspiciously. There was nothing in his body language that suggested deceit, although reading such subtleties were more Mycroft's area. This was an issue that would constantly badger him: was John simply acting on his own inspiration, or with Mycroft's agenda and money in mind?

The soft touches on him made his mind up. This was something he would have to investigate, yes, but if John passed this information onto Mycroft, then it wouldn't matter. Repetition did nothing for his older brother.

Sherlock adjusted the pillow below his head, simultaneously stretching his body a little more and allowing his t-shirt to ride up over his skin innocently. "As you know, the general image that I see often provides me with far more information to gleam than it might for you. There are all manners of things that are concerned in crime: motives, how to gather viable evidence, an understanding of the general vicinity, etc. Normally, it can be incredibly hard to keep such information separated, yet still coherent and viable. There can be too much clutter, when there should be nothing."

"And that's where deletion comes in." John said softly, his fingers focusing on the bone of his ankle, as he followed Sherlock's explanation.

He nodded, "Yes. I use a memory-recalling technique where, rather than relying on one massive pool of memory, everything is already compartmentalised due to how I store the information." John leaned in a little closer, his interest in the topic clear and without Mycroft's interference. "You begin with an area you are familiar with, be it your room or your entire house. You take the image and put it in your mind. Upon learning something new, you can organise the room to suit your whims. You can put previous knowledge in a drawer, new knowledge on a desk, cupboards stacked with things of importance, suppressed memories hidden in dark closets."

It was interesting to watch John's face, as he slowly realised the implications of his words. John was very fond of bringing his brows together and pursing his lips a little, when thinking. Hiding basic emotion was not something John did, apparently. He was one of those disgustingly human creatures who were almost entirely see through: their wants and needs open for him to interpret. He should hate John – hate him for the mindless simplicity of his plain clothes, plain face and above average intellect. John was a surprise. If he had not opened his mouth and complimented Sherlock, then he doubted the doctor would still be here. Beneath the warm clothing, and under the layer of epidermis that covered his body, there must have been something novel written into John's DNA. An anomaly that allowed him to take Sherlock when hardly anyone else did – some sort of a mutation when the DNA copied, in which the information changed, or got lost or rearranged to create this significantly strange being.

"Essentially, if you look in the right place, then you'll find the information you've stored." John said with wonder. Such a pure expression – no lying there. Mycroft had picked both the best and worst man to spy on him. Moral, truthful and trustworthy could work in either Mycroft's, or his own, favour. John's allegiance could change from Mycroft to Sherlock. Sherlock would be a better master; he was better than Mycroft and more interesting.

"How big is your place?" John asked.

As ever, John asked the reasonable questions.

He'd started small to begin with: a house he'd created to suit the purpose. The rooms had filled to the brim with floods and floods of senseless things. Deleting had not always been an option for him, and, without it, the build-up of information was unsettling.

Eventually the house expanded, rooms were added, and a little fence was installed around the place. Inside the house was everything he required, and outside of the fence was the yelling, withdrawal, and the uncontrollable anger that he felt towards the simpletons who saw everything but observed nothing. The fence hadn't helped – everything bled into one anyway. It called for redecoration, expansion, and a new headspace.

And so, the palace was created. Huge rooms with everything he knew packed neatly and tightly, back rooms with 'pending to delete' knowledge, hidden doorways that led to things that he regretted or secrets he'd kept. He didn't mind that some of the rooms had blood splatters and organs out in the open; it was better than the room with an ever-tempting syringe, which he prayed to be real and fake. Quaint demons lurked within his mind, calls of murder and promises of fun that tempted his subconscious.

"Hey," John grasped his wrist, "don't leave me to go into that head of yours. I really can't follow."

His eyes snapped to John's face, to the sincerity etched into his skin like a tattoo and the murderously kind eyes.

"A palace." John didn't appear to understand. _Above average intelligence__,__ but he will never be you __–__ he will never match you. _"You asked for the size of my 'place'. It's a palace."

John's laugh was an unexpected burst of mirth. "Of course you would have a palace."

The tone was sarcastic but laced with affection. John _liked_ him. Friendship was meant to constitute of a mutual like, did it not? It was a shame, because, beneath it all, Sherlock hated John in some ways. Hated him for seeing but not observing, for having seen him out of control in his own body, for the fact that John caused him to be out of his depth and to not truly know what to do in many situations. The conflicting feelings he felt for John – lust, anger, kinship, hate – created an anomaly. No true way for him to determine anything.

"During withdrawal, does anything become worse in your mind?"

John's concern was not appreciated. He was not weak; he had done this before and could do it again.

John's understanding was frustrating, too. He was asking the right questions: the ones that needed answers, because they were things he could not always deal with on his own. During withdrawal, his mind palace was not the haven of knowledge it usually was. Things became harder to grasp, bits of useless information wound up in a system where they did not belong and deep want blurted out coherency, as he desperately craved cocaine – desperately craved for the normalcy of his mind palace to return.

John was _his_ doctor; he should not have to anticipate his brother's meddling. Later, he would text Mycroft again, tell him to stop prying and inform him that the hidden cameras in his home would be taken down shortly.

But, for now, he would stay here with John.

"I am less lucid, during withdrawal – things can get out of hand sometimes."

The doctor nodded. "Do you prefer to suffer in silence, or would you want me to help?"

He paused. Truthfully, he didn't know. He did not want to appear helpless – someone in need of supervision and a crutch. It wasn't his nature to share his private life with others. It wasn't his nature to share normally, either. There was _him,_ and then there was _them_: an invisible line of constant separation. Sometimes, people overstepped the line or blurred the edges, but that didn't happen very often. The association between him and the rest of society was lacking in many ways. In society's eyes, he was the freak, and, in his eyes, society was unfathomably stupid. There had never been any reason to share his problems, and yet John was so kindly offering an olive branch.

To take it would mean accepting the need for help and accepting that, as well as he looked externally, he was not always 'okay'. Was it reasonable to overthink this? To him, any such offer would always warrant analysis and dissection. Could it just come back to the fact that John was his friend? If he cast away uncertainties in this, then there would be so much less tension, but how could he? He was Sherlock Holmes, there was nothing meaningless about an unexpected offer of help.

John squeezed his wrist again. John could not follow Sherlock's thoughts – could not trace them back to the various insecurities plaguing him. Sherlock didn't consider them insecurities, just blips in the system, like John was. This was John being reassuring again, confirming his presence with a firm physical touch to reach through Sherlock's thoughts and wrench him into the present.

"We'll just see how we go."

* * *

There was no denying that Sherlock was smarter than him - that the man _saw _more – however, even the blind could sense how agitated and unsure of himself Sherlock was. He didn't fidget or babble on about nonsense, rather he seeped back into his mind and lay peacefully, trying to figure it all out. For minutes at a time, Sherlock would just fall silent. He'd almost thought the man had fallen asleep, when he realised Sherlock was just thinking – just trying to puzzle his way through.

Sherlock's mind was the one place that no one could touch. The scars on his back proved he could be physically attacked, the words Sherlock told him meant he'd been verbally attacked, and the hesitation in emotion was probably there from the lack of experience in the area. But, no matter what they said or did, Sherlock's mind was his recluse. His mind palace held everything he had to know; it would be comforting and familiar. Sherlock was intelligent, and he could take pride in that. He could strut around bearing the mark of being different from the rest but was at least able to defend himself with his intelligence.

That was probably why Sherlock was so off right now: his mind palace couldn't tell him how to act in a situation he'd never experienced before.

He squeezed Sherlock's wrist again. Considering how little the man ate, John was bemused at how healthy Sherlock was. There wasn't even any bone peeking out under his skin. Sherlock might be a little underweight, but he didn't look ready to topple over. It was interesting to see the differences in their hands. John's were darker, a little rougher and shorter. Sherlock's hands were pale, elegant and long fingered. It was the same anatomy but just different. Things like the curve of muscle, the strength of bone, the intricate pattern of veins, are why he was becoming a doctor. The human body is an amazing machine, just like Sherlock's mind.

It's nice, the way Sherlock's eyes go from half-shut to completely focused on him, at the pressure on his wrist. Sherlock couldn't answer his question; he looked for the answer but was frozen in his lack of knowledge. Sherlock could make some sort of smart-arsed retort, look him in the eye and tell him he doesn't need help, but they both know it would be a lie.

John didn't think that Sherlock was the type of person to really appreciate touching, so he tried to do so sparingly and with Sherlock's permission. He couldn't force Sherlock down and blindfold him, speaking nonsense about how he was there to help. He could, however, sit down with the man and carefully offer help. He needed to make the barriers that he couldn't cross, because Sherlock was most certainly not going to tell him.

"We'll just see how we go."

A neutral response, and the right one too, judging by how Sherlock nodded imperceptibly.

He pulled his hand away from Sherlock's, for a moment, just letting his fingers trail down over Sherlock's hand longer than necessary. To anyone else, it would be meaningless, but he hoped that Sherlock understood his hidden meaning.

There's a strip of skin showing that's edging him on, telling him to make some sort of move. He's not blind – he can see taut skin, hipbones and a thin trail of dark hair. Sherlock is attractive; his entire body seems to be. John's fingers skimming Sherlock's own was a signal that he was interested. He would not make a move, if Sherlock did not show proper interest. He could have, of course – it would have been easy enough to clamber over Sherlock's long legs and kiss him – but he did not do that. He _liked_ Sherlock. Sherlock was interesting and witty, in an acerbic way. If he had misunderstood it all, then everything else would become awkward. He didn't want to risk their current equilibrium over this.

Sherlock must have seen his eyes zoning in on the exposed skin; he was assuming he did, seeing the way Sherlock had just wriggled again, which pulled his shirt up just a tad higher. They were both adults, and they were mature enough to move past this, if John was just misreading signs. Sherlock could have just been testing his reactions, like Mycroft said he would. Sherlock could also have been telling him to take the first step. _Maybe Sherlock could delete it? No, that would be wrong_. He'd internally chastened Sherlock for deleting, accepting it as the reason Sherlock was not very understanding of general things.

He really didn't know what to do, so he returned to Sherlock's ankles and massaged them. Sherlock didn't appear as skittish, as he did when John used his sleep technique. Maybe it was the addition of sight that allowed touching to become more acceptable?

There wasn't much left to say, either. He thought back to Sherlock's 'mind palace'. The concept was astonishing. To think that Sherlock viewed his mind as a palace, filled with facts and knowledge, was amazing. The human brain is a complex thing, and he knew that, but this was a whole new way to consider it. He wanted to ask so many questions, things that Sherlock would probably find highly annoying. _Does the palace have different wings? Would a bedroom mean information about sleep, sex, and all the other things that can be done inside one?_ There were general questions he wanted to ask, like ones about layout and complexity, and then questions about himself. Would John ever be deleted? Had anything of John been stored away already? He was not completely selfless; he wanted to know these sorts of things.

He wanted to ask, but he didn't. Instead, he just sat there in a silence that was fast leaving its companionable feel. He realised that he probably should've had a shower, before Mike had arrived, but the man was in the area and only had so much time to visit them.

"I'm going to take a shower, then." He pushed Sherlock's feet off his lap, before getting up and stretching. Sherlock was regarding him with an annoyed expression. He raised his hands in defeat. "I can't help it if I need a shower, Sherlock." Truth be told, it was a little endearing seeing Sherlock looking so miffed.

"Text Lestrade, see if he has anything to bring me." Sherlock demanded, a moment later.

_Is Sherlock able to solve cases while at home? Surely they require a bit more legwork_. John didn't bother to vocalise his thoughts; Lestrade would decide which cases to bring to Sherlock. He sent a text through to the man, and Sherlock gave him a very short look of thanks, before slipping back into one of his sleep-like states.

* * *

The bathroom was next to Sherlock's room. It was a nice bathroom, if you ignored the empty test tubes and the rack they were stored in. He was pleased to find two towels there already, the carefully folded one on the bath's edge clearly his. It was one of those baths that doubled as a shower, though the curtain looked as though it had seen better days. He rifled around the drawers, when he couldn't find anything to wash with, and was greeted with a bunch of fabric covering tufts of brown hair. A little shocked sound left him, and he closed that drawer.

He opened the next one a little more cautiously, ready to close it at the sight or smell of anything particularly unsettling. Three boxes of soap were inside, the same kind he, as a doctor, would advise a parent to use on a child with sensitive skin. As far as he was aware of, Sherlock had no problems with his skin. There were certainly no unsightly blemishes on his body that could suggest dry skin or itching. There was nothing in Mycroft's write up of Sherlock's health either, which meant that Sherlock preferred using children's sensitive skin soap. He grinned and decided to go ask Sherlock about it.

"Hey," he called out to Sherlock's still form. "Why do you only have this type of soap?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and gave the soap a once over. "I prefer it to other soaps – it has less of an odour."

Odour? Odour was a word often used to describe a bad smell, not soap. He told Sherlock, and the man expelled an irritated huff.

"It does not contain any added perfume. I try to keep my olfactory senses as clear from unnecessary additions as possible. It's arduous, when I've been desensitised to the smell of certain perfumes or colognes, because I wear them myself. Smell can be highly useful, during cases." He said and broke off with a casual wave of his hand that appeared to be dismissal.

John ignored the hand wave. "Your file says you smoked; that's a pretty hard smell to hide."

Sherlock scowled. "That was not a concern, at the time."

John shrugged. True enough, he didn't actually know Sherlock's circumstance at that time.

"And the hair in the drawer?"

"Hair dye experiment: inconclusive results. You can throw it out if you like – I have no need for it now."

He nodded with a sarcastic expression. _Well, of course it's a hair dye experiment – what else could it be?_

"Uh, is there anything else I should be worried about in there?"

"Unlikely."

The terse tone was an even clearer dismissal. He turned around and walked back awkwardly to the bathroom. He wondered what talking on the phone to Sherlock must be like. Actually, he could hardly picture talking to Sherlock on the phone, for any length of time. Sherlock didn't seem to appreciate face to face conversation – conversation where he could deduce and observe freely. Phones must just be irritating: little social conventions to uphold and no way to see the person on the opposite end.

He eyed the soap with a smile, as he waited for the shower's water to reach the temperature he preferred. It was a little bit sweet, actually. As serious as Sherlock seemed, he had his own set of innocent little quirks that John most certainly did not expect. If only the man loosened up a little more, like he had when they laughed over takeaway, then it'd be easier to associate with him.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure when his head had started hurting, but that hardly mattered. What really mattered was that this was how it always began: a headache and then the slow unravelling of his mind. His brief stint with heroin had taught him the trauma of constant vomiting as a part of withdrawal, something cocaine, thankfully, did not have. Cocaine did, however, come with the most brutally destructive effects on his mind. The careful rooms of his mind palace warped and twisted, the walls bulging outwards in grotesque ways that disturbed the peace of his mind. He feared losing his senses, but that was something many people feared, but not many people actually thought of what it would be like to, in a way, lose their minds.

It was a chilling experience. His body was just transport, a disintegrating thing with petty and constant needs. His mind was what he needed. Who was Sherlock Holmes, if not a great mind? The craving for cocaine had hardly begun; it would develop into a deep set need soon. Just a bit of the drug, just enough to stave of this process, for a few more days. _Please_.

It was not in his nature to share or ask for anything. He took because he could – because he didn't have time to waste on asking. This was something he could not take back. No amount of knowledge would reverse the process of withdrawal to a time without the drug. He didn't regret taking the drug; no, he had needed it, to the point where he felt he couldn't breathe without it. His need for it had lessened occasionally, during the months he was clean, but it never really left. Some idiot might call it karma for taking the drug in the first place; scientifically, it was his mind relearning to function without the drug. Sherlock didn't know what he thought about this. Even before drugs, he had wished for a state of mind where everything made sense – that it was drugs that secured him that pleasure was inconsequential.

Maybe it would not have happened, if the world around him wasn't so mind numbing, or if he was a little closer to what Mycroft was: better at controlling himself. Mycroft was of the same intellectual level as him, both of them with knowledge in some areas beating the others, yet Mycroft did not fall prey to drugs. Sometimes Mycroft indulged in alcohol as a way to relieve pressure, though that was so incredibly rare that it hardly counted. Next to his brother, he was sporadic and all too happy to separate himself from the others. University had been where he'd learned to put up his walls. Groups of people tended to leap at the chance of shaming him, the brighter student who embarrassed them by revealing their badly kept secrets. He hadn't taken up the title of Sociopath until he'd been labelled as a freakish Psychopath. If he wore his title like armour, then their insults would fall uselessly to the ground. Eventually, they accepted that his blank expression meant he didn't care and not that it hurt. Emotion was feeble; it had never helped him. It had painted a target on his back in bright red blood and screamed at the top of its lungs.

It was ironic that cocaine brought out his most primal emotions. The withdrawal on his mind made him so angry, that he wanted to fight an invisible foe, it gave birth to the fear of being seen as ineffectual and feeling that way, and it made him lust for more of the drug or anything that could take his mind off of it, anything at all.

In a way, it was kind that Mycroft had hired John. John was a distraction. John was a living person, which was a refreshing change of pace for him. It was probable that John would consider himself used, if they had sex and then John realised Sherlock would do almost _anything_ to distract himself. It was in his best interest to keep John as a companion – someone who interested him socially.

He was pleased to find himself distracted by the idea that John was currently in the shower. Beneath the warm jumpers, Sherlock had no idea what he would find. John obviously used to play a sport of some kind, most likely rugby, judging by how confidently he'd spoken about the game with Mike. A sport like that would require athleticism. A trim body would suit John. Debauchery would also suit John. Pupils blown wide, lips open in sounds of pleasure, sweat trickling down his forehead. Sex would suit John, no doubt. It would be good to take apart John, make him shout his release until his throat was hoarse, and make him grip the sheets so hard that his knuckles would turn white. He didn't know enough about John and sex. John was bisexual, attracted to Sherlock, and willing to take that further, but he required mutual interest to start something. Definitely not enough.

The shower cutting off was the end of the steady drum of water; it made way for the silence of John redressing. He silently rejoiced, when John padded out of the bathroom, towel bunched at his waist, to collect some fresh clothes.

John's shoulders were a little broader than he'd hypothesized, though the rest of his build was just as imagined. The muscle had worn away from misuse, but some of it still remained. The look made John look younger: more like an unruly adult than a chunkily dressed man. He watched through mostly shut eyes, only fully opening them once John was on his return journey and already past him. John's back didn't have any scars, unlike his own. The skin was smooth, with a few odd freckles and flecks of water.

Taking John would be nice too. How loud was John willing to shout as he orgasmed, before covering his mouth? How hard did John like it? Did John enjoy kissing during sex, an extension of the romantic aspect, or just long thrusts pulling him closer to oblivion? This was a side of John he was curious to see.

He was unsurprised to find that, during his thoughts, he'd grown hard, and, although it was not to the extent that he would have to masturbate or risk John seeing, it was enough to allow the front of his pyjamas to bulge slightly. He retreated to his room and shut the door. A few minutes later, he heard John leave the bathroom, check the living room for him, and then come up to his door and knock.

"You okay?" He asked.

"Tell me if you hear anything from Lestrade. Otherwise, keep yourself occupied."

There was something muttered darkly against his door, but John did leave. He flopped out onto the bed. Nothing killed his libido like a good strong withdrawal-induced pounding sensation from his head.

* * *

**AN:** Oh wow, thank you for answering the poll or telling me your opinion about John and Sherlock's roles in a sexual relationship. I'm going to keep the poll up, just in case, so you're free to tell me what you think :) Thank you for all the support for this story I've been getting so far. You're all amazing *offers you all hugs*


	8. Chapter 7

Sorry for the time it took for this chapter! As a friendly peace offering, this chapter and the next are two of the longest I've ever written. Chapter beta'd by _gbheart_ ~

* * *

_**Chapter 7 -** Siblings and Comfort_

* * *

Lestrade was important, in his own way. That mostly stemmed from the fact that he was the only senior officer who allowed Sherlock onto crime scenes: a combination of sheer desperation and his selfless want to help Sherlock. He didn't doubt that Lestrade considered himself good at heart, though many of his colleagues considered the man mad for allowing Sherlock anywhere near a crime he supposedly created, but there were often moments where he wondered why he put up with the man.

Lestrade might be useful, but he still had the annoying tendency of texting Sherlock far more than strictly necessary. Sherlock didn't care about the semantics of the case he was being given; he would see the details with his own eyes very soon. He had no particular mind for feigning interest over something like this, even if that was what most people would do.

**(4:47) (Sherlock Holmes) –  
**_Shut up. -SH_

Lestrade was too practised in communication with him to reply with indignation, which certainly made the man more acceptable to interact with, but he would feel bitter at the text. He expected Lestrade would be here within the hour. So far, all he knew of the case was that a woman had been asphyxiated to death. No fingerprints, no signs of forced entry, some minor evidence of her having fought back, and no known enemies or tense relations to have inspired the murder. Lestrade had referred to it as 'murder without motive'; Sherlock had already decided it was Scotland Yard being incompetent. He hoped the murder wouldn't be too interesting; that would just blatantly rub it in his face that he was stuck _here_.

At least 221B did not have Mycroft's cologne wafting through the air. He hadn't appreciated his brother being an insufferable constant, even when Mycroft's diet had broken quite cleanly in two because of him.

Though withdrawal was not pleasant in any way, he did feel more comfortable experiencing it in an area he was more agreeable with. His treatment was better than he had hoped for too; John was far better than the insipid group he'd been forced to partake in. None of them understood why he took cocaine, seeing as they did not require the rush like he did. The staff had thought him stubborn, a boy just refusing the much needed help being offered. What came next was what Mycroft had referred to as 'A brutal slaughter of their closely held ideals – I do wish you'd stop making them cry.'

Sherlock did not pretend to understand the point of the group sessions. He had not walked into cocaine with a blindfold – had not dosed himself up without knowing the consequences. He had the information and still went on with the habit. It was an informed decision. Information would not necessarily stop someone from beginning something. The fear of punishment and pain halted people; information was just needed to refrain from utter stupidity.

Was that not understandable? His logic was sound. He did not misunderstand or miscalculate often, but an intelligent and informed opinion about why he was wrong could be appreciated and considered. The group leader had done no such thing. They'd brought in a colleague and flushed in embarrassment, when he did not back down.

It had all been a pointless waste of time.

Currently, he was preoccupied by the false complexity of one of his older tomes. It had released a fine sprinkle of dust into the air, when he'd opened it. Much of the information was wrong, but that just made it a little more fun. Mentally correcting the drivel before him gave him a certain quality of contained pleasure.

John was pacing around the kitchen again. He appeared to be frustrated that Sherlock hadn't left the room for hours, having knocked on the door and offered him tea a few times. He wasn't entirely sure why a painted piece of wood between them was so unsettling, but John wasn't offering answers. He wasn't ignoring John, not really, just applying himself to another mindless task.

Tucking his feet beneath the covers to keep them warm was an added bonus. The body may just be transport, but it demanded its own fair share persistently.

The sound of the doorbell was one of the most welcome things he'd heard in quite some time. A nice murder to distract him. How dreadfully pleasant.

He bounded out of his room with a bounce in his stride. John seemed a little surprised at his sudden presence in the room but proceeded to open the door for him. As soon as the Detective Inspector was across the threshold of the doorway, Sherlock was next to him, plucking the file out of Lestrade's hands and flicking through it with mild feverish excitement. There was a small protesting of 'hey!' from Lestrade, but otherwise the man remained silent, shaking hands with John, as Sherlock paced away, eyes plastered to the image of a dead woman.

The woman was in her late twenties, average height and average build. She was _very_ average, except for the terribly obvious collection of bruises scattered over her neck and mouth. Someone of considerable strength must have done this: she had squirmed against her attacker as they strangled her and cut off her cries. Trust… Someone close, not a stranger – she was killed in her bedroom. This wouldn't have been a one night stand either, because her clothes were unattractive and crumpled from laying around the house. The ghost of a ring on her left hand meant she'd married once. He flipped through the pages rapidly, fingers slipping over words, until it was confirmed that the woman's husband had died naturally a few months previous.

Jewellery, he needed close-ups of her jewellery.

The meticulous photography of the woman's body proved extremely useful – far from the dreadful quality of Anderson's work. All the jewellery that she had purchased was cheap silver, though fitted perfectly. It was all consistent, except for her right hand's ring finger. There was the exception: a loose gold ring. Not her own purchase – she had an unshakeable affinity for silver – but another's. This would not have been bought by her dead husband; he would have known about her preference, or would have at least asked for the right size, if not known it already. Someone else gave this to her; someone other than her husband.

As stunningly simple as this was, he wanted to see this crime scene first hand.

John was casually seated in the armchair Sherlock considered to be his own, observing the interactions between him and Lestrade. Lestrade stood next to him protectively, tracking all the movements Sherlock made to better understand his deductions.

"How're you then?" He asked gently, his face a mask of careful concern.

Sherlock huffed in irritation. "Busy, actually." He was scanning the photos of the woman's room: the room she had slept in with her late husband. It was a loving relationship, the imprint of her ring not looking like it had been fading over the months of his death. She wore the ring still, but where was it? It must be somewhere in the house. The killer had thought through this murder; they would not make the mistake of taking the ring. If his theory was correct, and it would be, then the ring would be in some obscure area.

"Your brother said this one will be easy."

What was also easy was imagining fratricide. Did Mycroft find it physically impossible to not weave himself into Sherlock's day? Mycroft was either playing with politics or toying with Sherlock, occasionally both at once, if he was being particularly annoying. Mycroft knew who the killer was before him. How _infuriating_.

He fought the urge to scowl. "A ring. Did you find a silver ring anywhere in the room?"

Lestrade nodded, the question of how Sherlock knew about the ring already on his lips. Sherlock cut him off with a practised wave of his hand. _Think… _It was an easy case, the answer clearly written into the photos, but he had to explain it coherently. Explaining was the hard part. People didn't always follow his logic – couldn't keep up with him, even when he slowed down for them. Withdrawal made it that little bit more difficult too; the right words and strings of logic became elusive, at times like these.

"Speak to her close friends; one of them will know the identity of the killer." With that statement in the air, he was the centre of attention, both John and Lestrade watching with even more interest.

"How?"

"Easy," he said with satisfaction curling his lips. John had called him arrogant – what an apt conclusion to come to. The moment when his evidence coalesced was always seductively perfect. "The tan line from her marriage's ring has not faded in the least. If anything, I'd say it was the same strength. She has not stopped wearing the ring since her husband's death. All her jewellery is consistently silver, and it all fits perfectly. The only exception to this is the gold ring on her right hand. It's placed on her ring finger, the traditional sign of commitment. Her index finger is a little larger; _surely_ she would have moved the ring there to counteract the fact that it's too big, unless it was a sign of commitment too."

"She moved onto a different partner while still mourning her husband?" John asked, disbelief clear on his face.

He nodded. Both Lestrade and John were wearing identical expressions. Clearly this was another one of those situations he'd never quite bothered to take in. If she'd just been sleeping with the killer, not forming any attachments, would the two of them have the same response? Was there some sort of a time limit between switching partners after they died? Her husband had been dead three and a half months: would it have been frowned upon if she created new friends during this time too? There had to be some sort of social rule about this, one that could explain the situation even to him.

He only allowed himself another moment to ponder this. Did they think she was having an affair with the killer during her marriage? Perhaps, though the level of commitment shown to her husband suggested otherwise. This was probably something to do with the cycle of grief most people appeared to go through – another thing he'd never bothered to observe in depth. There was only so much hysterical crying he could take.

"Her partner bought the ring early in the relationship, likely a need to claim her affections from her late husband. She hasn't removed the first ring since. The killer would have spawned a sense of jealousy that eventually led to this. Simple. As I said, ask one of her close associates to find the killer. All other evidence will be hidden on their body, most likely in the form of bruises from her attempts at self-defence."

There was an old, unfamiliar look on Lestrade's face, the one that meant he was failing to understand something or not entirely convinced with his conclusion. Perhaps his explanation lacked the calculated detail it usually held? That hardly mattered – the case was solved – and he wasn't going to expand on a point he'd already explained.

"Right," Lestrade muttered, before clearing his throat and speaking up, "are you absolutely sure about this?" There was genuine doubt woven into the question.

Sherlock was unexpectedly angry at that. It was a question that he had been asked before, just never for something as clear as this. It was the same level of faith he'd had placed on him when he first became a consultant. That is, hardly any at all. Lestrade had refused to hand over cases to Sherlock, when he was actively taking drugs, something about morals and the motivation to get clean, but never questioned his deductions about them during withdrawal. True, he'd only been given cold cases and would write his evidence out before handing it over to be passed onto the DI, but he had never been under the impression that he was _doubted_.

It was more than he could take. For Lestrade to feel his deductions inadequate was bruising and offensive. "I assure you, _Inspector_, I am absolutely positive." He ground the words out, couldn't stop the twist of anger that imbued itself with Lestrade's title, and felt morbidly pleased at the look of surprise on the man's face.

* * *

John was watching on in obvious discomfort, unsure of what had just occurred. He was apprehensive about the speed Lestrade left, even more so when Sherlock rounded on him, lips thin and body language dauntingly angry. There was no denying the fact that Sherlock stalked towards him, easily towering over John, a moment later, and trapping him with one hand splayed above each shoulder. The movements were all forceful and confident, suffused with some sort of purpose John still couldn't make out. It'd be intensely sexual, if not for the minute downturn at Sherlock's lips.

Lestrade had _offended_ Sherlock.

It explained Sherlock's offensive attack on Lestrade and why the man had fled with awkward sheepishness. Sherlock was obviously proud of his intellect; what Lestrade said was a hit to that pride. However, it didn't explain why Sherlock had him trapped against the armchair – why that anger was now aimed solely at John. It was surprising how well Sherlock's mad expression made him switch from concerned to feeling overheated. He hadn't been in proximity with Sherlock's face like this before. He could see the individual colours in Sherlock's eyes, the distinct dryness of his lips, and the otherwise invisible wrinkles. He had no idea what Sherlock wanted him to do here. His head was tilted upwards to see Sherlock, and he could feel the man's breath spilling onto his face.

"Sherlock -" he began, but was cut off almost immediately.

"Do you think I'm a freak, John?" The tone wasn't insecure at all. It was taunting and disconcerting, a side he didn't think he'd seen yet. Sherlock's eyes were darting all over his face, trying to read his response before he gave it. He did the same, but without any success.

John wasn't sure what to say to it. It was the same sort of shock he felt when Sherlock pronounced himself a Sociopath. He wasn't sure how Lestrade prompted this line of inquiry either. Was he meant to give an answer or was this some sort of a test Sherlock had decided to spring on him? If the answer wasn't to Sherlock's liking, what would happen? He didn't consider Sherlock a freak, just someone who expressed themselves very differently – someone whose intelligence was a key and a barrier. Sherlock was unique.

"Context?" He asked, licking his lip nervously. Sherlock tilted his head at the action.

"Am I disconcerting to be around? Mycroft has already told you I have self-destructive tendencies, or at least implied it. One of Lestrade's colleagues regularly says that I'm a Psychopath, a killer too." Sherlock's voice purposefully turned tender at the word killer, caressing it and breathing it as a prayer. "Am I inhumane? I don't care that that woman died. There's no reason for me to care. Does that make me a freak, John?"

_Jesus Christ. What the fuck do I say? Why is he saying this?_ He didn't have the slightest idea how to respond. Sherlock wasn't seeking reassurance, he was just listing various qualities about himself. Why was it that even Sherlock was trying to scare him away now? Lack of empathetic response was something many people did. John hadn't felt empathetic towards one of the bastards he'd punched while still at school. It's not that which concerned him, but the self-destructive tendencies and the killer part.

He could certainly see the self-destructive tendencies – it was the reason why he was here and listening to this rant right now – but the killer part seemed too harsh. He ignored the way Sherlock purred over the word, and the way it set off warning lights in his head, and focused on why someone might say that. Sherlock was brilliant, and the way he'd deconstructed that entire crime scene motive based on a single ring was stunning, but it made him appear far too in-the-know about the killing. The leaps in logic were sound in Sherlock's mind, though perhaps troubling to someone else. Someone else might take that as a clear sign that, just maybe, Sherlock knew too much.

He was just about to speak, to ask Sherlock _why_ he was saying this, when the man broke through again.

"I take drugs because I get bored. I enjoy manipulating something, or someone, to suit my own wants and needs." Sherlock had quickly dropped his marginally wounded expression and replaced it with a mask of ice, giving his words more sickening power. "I've never had sex with affection. I'm selfish, arrogant, and cruel. What do you think, John? I'm a Sociopath, does that make it right for them to hate me? You look a little peaky, _John_."

It was the way Sherlock said his name, mocking and condescending, that made him snap, made him push Sherlock away. That was too much.

He stood and moved away. Sherlock looked a little surprised to find himself suddenly standing, to have so much space separating the two of them.

"Are you actually _trying_ to make me agree?" John demanded, head spinning from what had just been said.

Sherlock made a noncommittal move. "Flatmates are meant to know the worst about each other."

Sherlock made it seem as though he was doing John a favour by admitting those things. He felt disgusted by it. This wasn't the warning Mycroft gave him, but more a brief review of everything Sherlock knew would disturb him. He made his way for his keys, snatching them up before grabbing his coat. There was absolutely no way he was going through this now, not with all Sherlock's words picking away at the good image the detective had built for himself.

He was two streets away, when his phone buzzed. He expected it to be from Sherlock, some sort of explanation as to what the fuck had just happened.

**(5:30pm) (Private number) -**  
_Am I going to have to invest in a new doctor? MH_

He typed his response angrily, briefly wondering how Mycroft knew about this already, and hoped the man would follow his instructions.

**(5:30pm) (John Watson) -  
**_Invest in a visit to your bloody brother._

* * *

Sherlock wasn't surprised in the least to find Mycroft strolling into the living room, half an hour after John's abrupt departure. As always, there was something about the way that Mycroft walked in that implied that the man rightfully owned the place. His mood turned even sourer, an accomplishment, seeing how unexpectedly foul he was feeling.

"Are we really going to have to do this again, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, voice humble except for the slight hint of disappointed scorn.

He strode out of the room and put the kettle on. Not for Mycroft, no, but rather for some coffee. He would need some sort of stimulant to make it through his brother's inquisition and the muddle of his mind. Avoiding the conversation would be pointless; Mycroft was as stubborn as he was, in situations like these. Avoiding his mind was impossible.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." At least he could drive an irritating thorn into his brother's side.

Mycroft sat down on the armchair, a delicately placed sigh of ennui at his words permeating the air. "Ignorance never suited you, even as an act. This entire process of communication will be much more pleasant, if you accept the fact that it is necessary."

Sherlock scoffed, as he pulled out a mug and spooned the sugar and coffee in. Conversation with Mycroft hadn't been pleasant, since he was a child; it most certainly wasn't necessary, either. They could have had this talk, just as easily, via text.

Neither of them sought to converse any further. Mycroft wouldn't speak, until Sherlock was seated opposite him: a mixture of pride and the need to enforce his words.

He poured the water, slowly mixing it, before taking his seat.

"Would you be less inexorable, if I told you the flat wasn't bugged?"

That meant the flat had never been bugged in the first place – a small victory, on his part. Between the times Mycroft had received his text message, brusquely demanding to take any surveillance equipment down, and now, no one could have come in and removed the equipment, seeing as he'd been awake the entire time. Either Mycroft was lying about the state of the flat, or the cameras never had been put in place. He suspected the latter. Mycroft wasn't above lying, but he did prefer to not create more reason for Sherlock to actively avoid him. How manipulation and constant surveillance was classified as more acceptable than lying, he wasn't sure, though the saying was 'it's the thought that counts'.

"Possibly," Sherlock said, blowing at the rim of his mug. "Though, evidently, that doesn't apply to the street cameras. Are you just going to linger, or is there a purpose to this impromptu visit?" It was about John, he knew that, but this was how they spoke now. Mycroft would begin, usually calling him out on some sort of vice, and Sherlock wouldn't comply for as long as possible.

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor twice, the only sign that Sherlock had actually managed to frustrate him. He smirked smugly under the guise of taking a sip.

"Is there any reason your doctor has decided against sleeping here tonight?"

Sherlock bristled at the question. Had John been disgusted to the point that he couldn't bear to be in the same flat as Sherlock? That was… strange, actually. Worse than Lestrade's mistrust in his deductions. He'd known John for only days, and, somehow, he'd taken a higher position than Lestrade? It was a niggling sensation in the back of his mind that refused to relent. "He's hardly my own doctor." He took a scalding sip of his coffee to cover the very new feeling, grimacing slightly at the taste and heat. Coffee was legal and stimulating, though not particularly enjoyable, in his opinion.

Mycroft's brows lifted, the same way they always did when he'd discovered something. He didn't appreciate the look; it meant he'd given something away, something that captured Mycroft's attention to the point that he had to make the expression. His brother may have been good at reading body language, but surely he hadn't given _that_ much away. Mycroft picked up his umbrella and stood, walking over to the door as he spoke.

"Not necessarily. I may pay him, but the matters that he attends with you are yours only." He gave Sherlock one last meaningful look, something unspoken passing between them. "Good day."

_Oh_. Mycroft thought he knew that John wasn't relaying his information back to him, rather keeping everything that happened between them private. This was out of character for Mycroft. Mycroft preferred it when he was watched and restrained from anything deemed inappropriate. This meant that John's allegiance was entirely towards him. The declared friendship was true and without motive, as most of John's actions would be. It painted their interactions in an entirely different light.

The entire mistrustful view he'd had on John's persona was false. His act of testing John's boundaries, when it came to his darker side, was void now – pointless and another barrier he'd have to overcome later on. The immense rage he felt towards his lack of knowledge about Lestrade's hesitancy towards him had dissipated, the air clearing once John had been removed from the general vicinity. John had been enraptured beneath him, their breath mingling sensually between the two of them, as he whispered all the right words: the ones that would bring out disbelief and horror. He hadn't meant for all that to come out, but it did. He'd meant to collect himself and inquire about the possibility of dinner, not begin quoting Donovan as though she was right.

He hadn't minced his words. He'd spoken with the conviction of someone who was telling the truth. He hadn't thought to factor in the fact that sometimes, with the right trigger pushed during this state of oppressive withdrawal, he was bound to lash out. He'd done so to the group of addicts he'd had to work with, and he'd done so at Mycroft, at one point, too. Sherlock didn't think that he'd do it to _John_. John had a steady composure that sufficiently grounded him during his low points. His intention was to bat playfully at John, not violently force his hand.

This was… not good. No, not good at all. John's praise had been heady, and his wish to legitimately help and comfort was confusing, though painfully nice. He did not want another doctor to attempt to integrate with him. He wanted John because of his mindless simplicity and captivating actions.

Perhaps he should text John, though what he would write was a complete mystery. This wasn't the type of mystery he normally partook in. He did not indulge in emotions or explanations, for there was no rationality in them – no express set of rules or common precedent for him to follow. If only crime had so many avenues subject to change, ones for him to predict and explore, so then maybe he wouldn't be in this situation. Emotion was interesting to a point, then it just became tedious and highly unpredictable. Some people cried out of happiness, some turned sadness into a motive for revenge, and some would choose the relationship between them and their partner over everything else. It boggled him. Why on Earth would anyone sacrifice so much for a singular human being?

He took his place on the sofa, gingerly placing his head on the pillow and closing his eyes. For now, this was a puzzle – something to keep him from focusing on how his mind was turning to hell.

* * *

The distraction of his endless questions on the humanity of people kept him occupied for quite some time. It was a good distraction, until he unravelled under the pressure of his mind and fought the urge to _scream_.

* * *

Harry didn't do visits from John. It was just a rule that existed between them. They used to be okay, as okay as two siblings who were entirely different could be, but that changed with time. Mostly, it was the alcohol. Harry wasn't stupid – she was smart and had all the possibilities laid out before her – but she needed the escape like no other. John couldn't stop thinking of how Sherlock needed the escape of drugs. Was it really an escape? Cocaine was a stimulant, and everything would have been more focused for that brief period of time he was high. Sherlock's mind proved time and time again to work too fast. It wasn't escape, if Sherlock was channelling his mind, was it?

"You look as bad as I do." Harry said bleakly, as she placed a cup of tea before him, sitting down a second later.

He grunted, and they fell into silence. He closed his hands around the cup, felt the heat sting his hands, but didn't let go. He wasn't going back to the flat. He didn't know what to say or think.

"How're you?" He asked, and she snorted.

"Fuck, John, you come here looking like you did when Gladstone died, and you ask _me_ how I am?" She made another amused noise, making her way over to the fridge, pulling out two bottles of beer and handing him one, completely ignoring the fact that she'd just made tea. He took his own without comment but couldn't stop himself from glancing at hers.

She caught his look with an annoyed expression. "One of us is going to get pissed tonight, and I know it's not going to be you."

John sighed then nodded. He drunk enough to take the edge off; Harry drunk enough to obliterate that edge and everything that came with it. That was what would forever irk him: his sister's willingness to just let it all go, rather than working at it. He never said it, but she knew it well enough.

Harry cracked open her beer, took a long swig, and then spoke. "So? You're here for a reason. I might as well be useful and listen."

"It's complicated," he said sullenly, and she made another uncouth noise.

It _was_ complicated. He and Harry didn't do talking as much as they didn't do visits. Even if they did, what would he say? _Oh, sorry about crashing here tonight – my flatmate decided to allude to the fact that everyone thinks he's mad and is a brutal murderer, sleep well!_ He's not going to be able to explain it in any way that will give Sherlock even the slimmest chance of appearing innocent. John didn't believe Sherlock to be a Sociopath – there was too much going on beneath the façade of practised equanimity for it to be true – but he did believe that Sherlock wanted to be. There was something about the way that Sherlock responded to his fear – anger, calculating, and disappointment – that was just off. Sherlock responded to his fear as though he needed to immediately cloak it somehow, like his body has brutally betrayed him to be showing such a response.

He thought back to the analogy he used about Sherlock and a computer virus. Sherlock deleted, and Sherlock miscalculated. It sounded so mechanical, as though Sherlock preferred to operate under a robotic costume. The deleting was actually pretty okay, and you couldn't coin it another name, but the miscalculating wasn't. Mistakes were mistakes.

John took a long drink. Again, he was looking far too deeply into this, trying to read hidden meanings in all of Sherlock's previous words to stop himself from thinking about being pressed against the armchair.

Harry prodded him with her elbow, still waiting for something to sate her curiosity.

He settled for, "I just need some time to think."

Harry accepted his excuse, retrieved another two beers from the fridge, handed him one, and then left him to his thoughts. It's the one thing they're actually good at, leaving each other alone.

He set his phone's alarm for 6 a.m. and lay down on the sofa, pulling the blanket onto himself, before trying to decode the meaning behind Sherlock's words.

* * *

Even after just having crashed at Harry's place for the night, he slipped back into his old pattern. He left some painkillers on her bedside table, a glass of cold water, and tucked her in sadly. She wasn't at her worst, but she did go back to the fridge a few times.

By the time he was outside, lamely looking for a taxi at this time in this area, he only had to wait a couple of minutes before there was a car pulling up next to him. There was no Mycroft present, but there was Anthea. She looked perfectly at home in the car, as though she hadn't been pulled out at some ungodly hour and told to come and get him.

"Looks like I don't need to bother with the tube or cabs anymore."

She offered him a vague smile, one that was about as sincere as the pleasantries he and Harry exchanged yesterday, and he shut up automatically. The expression was utterly blank, not just false but disturbing.

221B came up far too quickly for his liking. It was foreboding, and he felt unwelcome and highly uncomfortable. The loud steps up to the flat's door were booming and ominous. He could hear Sherlock's low voice, an angry rise and fall in the tone that set John on edge, making him wonder if Mycroft had indeed graced the flat with his presence. He slowed his steps, reaching the doorway and hovering between the curiosity to hear more of what the two brothers were saying, or possibly entering the conversation himself.

It took him a moment to realise that Mycroft wasn't interjecting at all, staying uncharacteristically silent as Sherlock spoke, voice unexpectedly changing in volume. It sounded like Sherlock was ranting at his brother, though whatever it was about was lost on John. He unlocked the door, breaching the line of No-Sherlock and Sherlock cleanly.

The flat was fundamentally the same, though there were things scattered messily on the floor. Careless patterns of paper held their place on the carpet, some of the sheets crinkling or fluttering as Sherlock went past them. The violin was neatly rested against the armchair, the bow on the desk.

Sherlock was agitatedly pacing the living room. Everything about him looked skewed: his clothes were rumpled, his hair messy, and his expression raging. He looked like a man possessed, taking a deep breath and calming temporarily. John took the moment to survey the scene, belatedly noting that Sherlock had been speaking to himself, rather than his brother, and cleared his throat. Sherlock hadn't even registered his arrival.

The detective rounded in on him, hands clenched and thick rage clinging to him. Sherlock didn't let him speak, launching into his previous monologue instead.

"It's absolutely pointless, don't you understand?" Sherlock hissed brokenly at him, eyes wide as though he were imploring John to understand, or to help Sherlock understand it himself. "There's no need for all of these conventions to keep society all neat and organised. It will forever be broken, as the law is. None of it would be necessary, if all you idiots would just open your eyes and see. How can none of you understand what is clearly before you? You people _infuriate_ me. All your petty ideals that need to be followed through with day in, day out, as though nothing else will carry you through life -"

Sherlock paused and ground his hands into his eyes, a groan spilling out of his split lips, as he moved towards John, close enough to weakly fall against him.

John touched Sherlock's shoulder and felt the tension – felt how Sherlock flinched away from him too.

Sherlock's hands fell away from his face, eyes dull and despairing. "You stumble into the same wall of stupidity constantly without fail. So freakishly dull, so keen to ignore the obvious. It's _hateful_."

He didn't think Sherlock was speaking plainly anymore; there was a look of frustrated hopelessness about Sherlock that said more than his words did. The visceral emotion robbed Sherlock of his adulthood, reducing him to, in John's eyes, a teenager. Sherlock just didn't know what to do. His hands fisted his hair, his teeth ground together, and another sound ripped itself out of him. It was raw and horrible to behold.

Sherlock suddenly sat on the floor, grabbing the nearest sheet of paper and scanning it. John could see the notes, could almost imagine Sherlock hearing the sheet music's melody, but the man threw the paper away, hissing as he did so. "It would be so quiet," whispered Sherlock, and John felt a horrible swooping sensation in his stomach, one that pushed him to the floor next to Sherlock.

"What would be quiet?" He grabbed Sherlock's hands, just holding them for the time being. "_Sherlock_."

"Cocaine," Sherlock responded grandly, and John felt some of his fear deflate. He'd seen a depressed teenager once refer to suicide as 'the promise of quiet'. To hear something similar from Sherlock, from someone so headstrong and alive and _bright_, was a sobering thought.

Sherlock's hands had taken up their fine tremor again, the physical proof that Sherlock was far from okay, and John felt the urge to just hug Sherlock, to reinstate the fact that he was here. It was like layers of Sherlock's resolve were being stripped away, slowly taking John to the core of madness that Sherlock appeared to keep hidden. It _would_ be hateful to be smarter than everyone else but still cast out due to that and other eccentricities. John felt frustrated towards patients, when he had to repetitively explain antibiotic resistance; he could hardly imagine applying that to most of the people he met, if not all of them.

Why did cocaine make it quiet? It was a stimulant, not a depressant. He had no way to assure Sherlock that it would get better – no proof that it would. He could sympathise with Sherlock's insomnia, and could understand why it was such a big part of Sherlock, but he had no experience with withdrawal. The only thing he ever craved was caffeine after not enough sleep, which was a far cry from what Sherlock was going through. Right now, he heavily doubted his expertise in the area. He wasn't smart enough to keep up with Sherlock and didn't know what the man was going through. He felt spectacularly useless, like this.

Sherlock was watching him with big eyes, curiosity and dejectedness mixed into one. Sherlock looked small, his humanity surprising. The look didn't sit right on Sherlock's face – it made him appear so much more prone to episodes like this and made the threat of relapsing that much more severe. He pulled Sherlock towards him, letting go of the man's hands and resting his own on Sherlock's back. It was awkward, especially because of the distance otherwise between them, but Sherlock only stiffened for a moment, before melting into the contact, tucking his face into John's neck.

Sherlock had looked tired, and not just in a way that suggested he hadn't slept, but weary and desperately unhappy that he'd fallen into that need again. He couldn't imagine Sherlock having lived through withdrawal twice before; it was too brutal. He must have needed the drugs more than John had thought. Sherlock had tried to get out of it – tried incredibly hard to distract himself – but he'd been pushed into it again.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, voice a mere rumble below his ear. "Most people aren't keen to continue association with a Psychopath."

"You're not a Psychopath." The words spilled easily off his tongue, his conviction clear.

"I am a Sociopath, though."

John didn't see it – didn't see the emotionless picture that came with being a Sociopath. Maybe Sherlock couldn't see it, probably because he wanted to believe it for some reason, but he was so much more than just a Sociopath.

"I don't believe you," he said, and wrapped his arms a little tighter around Sherlock.

He gingerly leaned his head against Sherlock's, waiting for a retort or signal that this was too much. He knew Sherlock didn't really do touching, and knew that affection and kind words weren't often given to him, so forced himself to not tighten his arms around Sherlock again. Sherlock was so starved of simple affection, and so unsure of himself, when it came to it.

"You did brilliantly on that case today." John whispered, thumb ghosting over the top of Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock rearranged himself a little closer to John, loosely resting his hands on John's hips. He almost didn't hear the quiet 'thank you' Sherlock breathed onto his neck, but he did feel how bittersweet the moment was.

* * *

**AN:** Thank you for all the support I'm getting for this story, it really is greatly appreciated :'D I'm considering making a tumblr for my writing, mostly just so that I can reblog the various pics I use as inspiration for different parts of each chapter.


	9. Chapter 8

I warned you this chapter would be long. Chapter beta'd by _gbheart _:)

* * *

_**Chapter 8 -** Dopamine_

* * *

Sherlock did not do physical intimacy. He did sex, and the preparation that led up to sex, but that excluded many things. Sherlock did kissing minimally; it was too affectionate and seemed to be the basis of a continued, intimate relationship. Sherlock did not do fellatio in any capacity, meaning on another man or having it done on himself, nor cunnilingus. He knew how to finger both a woman and a man to prepare them for sex. He could do so with either intense pleasure in mind, or just to stretch and make sure that they were ready. He had reasons for all the minimal extra touching, mainly based on his own ideals on the subject, but barely anyone appeared to understand them. Their lack of understanding hardly mattered; he had limits and things he didn't do, like everyone did.

Coincidentally, hugging was one of those things he never did.

Hugging was something he observed quite often, seeing as he was often at the scene of something lamentable. People hugged as a method of comfort. First there was often shock, then tears, and finally hugging. Sometimes it was just a reassuring touch on the shoulder, possibly a chaste kiss on the forehead, but the most common form of comfort was hugging. He supposed that was the same principle with shock blankets, when they weren't being used to maintain body heat or being wrapped around someone with serious wounds. They were meant to symbolise that same warm comfort or, at least, that was how he understood the principle of it. He did not see the appeal of a horrifically orange blanket being draped over his shoulders. If anything, it was humiliating. Surely that wasn't a feeling that having arms wrapped around you was meant to inspire.

Sherlock didn't do physical intimacy. He couldn't picture him and Mycroft hugging. Their relationship was too impersonal. There was some sort of caring between them, one sorely tried by his drug addiction, but they never sought to express that physically. He and Mrs Hudson touched occasionally, something born out of his respect for her strength, when he'd helped sentence her husband to death. He felt comfortable with her, knowing that she cared for him without any outside influence.

He hadn't imagined John hugging him. He'd been too focused on John sexually to realise that it was a possibility.

It was surprising, mainly because he hadn't predicted the action. The shakiness of his last moment was still plaguing him, still clutching firmly at his resolve. It was taking a little longer to put himself back together this time. John's presence was less unwelcome now, knowing that he wasn't there just out of Mycroft's demands, but it didn't erase the fact that he looked upon these breaks in his stony composure with immense disdain. That John was viewing this too was humiliating, much like the shock blanket.

His want for John's hands to hide his own shaking ones was intense. It made John more understanding of the situation – made him, in Sherlock's eyes, less judgemental. When John took away his hands, he dreaded the upcoming demands, the dull conversation that would arise from yesterday. John placing his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him in wasn't even on the list of things he'd been expecting. The knowledge that there was no Mycroft involved in this allowed him to accept the contact far quicker than he might've done otherwise.

This touch made the shock blankets even more outrageous. There was no comparison to be made between tatty fabric and the warmth of an actual being. The blanket was too impersonal, too unbelievably false, to be anything like the weight of John's arms across his back. The blanket was casually thrown onto anyone's shoulders; John was doing this for _him_.

It stayed his shivers – made them creep away, like frost faced with a summer's touch. Why was this so spectacularly… _good_? This had to do with the dopamine in the brain: the same chemical released during sex or when interacting with somebody you had affection for. The same chemical that cocaine boosted, and the one that helped create need for the drug. It was far from the rush cocaine gave, but it was more constant, and more accessible.

John didn't perceive him as a Psychopath or Sociopath. How did John view him? He doubted John had a low opinion of him, one that reduced him to being a mere junkie, but neither did John approve of the drugs. Not many people approved of recreational drugs, but he was grateful that John wasn't judging him as harshly.

John ran his fingers across Sherlock's back, and the touch sent a curious sensation through him – a weak want for more than what he was being given.

"You did brilliantly on that case today." John whispered, and Sherlock felt uncharacteristically uncomfortable. The thought of fucking John was unpleasant, at this moment. He just wanted more of this touch: the gentleness of John's fingers running over his spine, the weight and realness of John's body, and the light tickles of air that came from John every few seconds.

He moved forward a little, lacing his fingers behind John's back and moving close enough for his lips to almost touch John's neck, whispering his thanks like a prayer. He felt warm, appreciated and wanted. Not wanted sexually but for his companionship. He wasn't spectacularly good at this friendship thing, but this was very nice. This would be one of the reasons John didn't label him as a Sociopath. He shouldn't want this sort of comfort – shouldn't feel so overwhelmed with the perfection of it – but, somehow, he did.

"You haven't slept, have you?"

It was novel to actually be able to feel John's voice, the sound right there next to him. The question itself was pointless; they both knew that he hadn't. Sleep was desecrated by his thoughts: the endless turning cogs that constantly cycled back to cocaine, to the rush that he craved. He wanted cocaine to the point that it became a need, overriding everything else of importance. Everything was so dull under his normal scrutiny. Cocaine brought out the vividness, making the world around him better, to a point where he could tolerate everything.

Cocaine had distracted him from the tedium of the world, and now he needed a distraction from the brightness of cocaine. It was a curious cycle.

How could he explain any of this? It was too complex. Words could not capture how fulfilling cocaine was, nor how addicting and maddening the substance was. That was the failure of language; it just didn't hold the right depth, in some areas. You could not describe a colour to the colour-blind. Blue was blue. Blue was also aqua, turquoise, azure, cyan, teal, and cerulean. There was baby blue, light blue, sky blue, and navy blue. How could one summarise the complexity of blue? How could one summarise the complexity of any colour? Could you describe the taste of meat to a vegetarian? There's nothing there to do so.

He could still feel the threads of emotion, tying him down and telling him that the light prick of a needle will stop this all. Make it _better_. He ignored it, closing his eyes to the world and focusing on John.

John had either been at the pub or at his sister's, judging by the smell of alcohol on him. The absence of cigarette smoke, and the fact that Mycroft told him John was sleeping elsewhere last night, pointed towards sister. There was feminine perfume on John too, combating the scent of John's own deodorant that had slowly faded over the day and through the night. There was no scent of sex, so he ruled out one-night stand completely. Sister it was. Beneath the chemical concoction of alluring scents was John's actual smell. Clean, musky, and something else that Sherlock just couldn't put into words. Words seemed to be failing him quite alarmingly often.

"Hey," John murmured, nudging his shoulder up a little. "Still with me?"

Such a question would usually warrant a harsh response, but now he was too tired, instead opting for a simple 'yes'. John realised and resumed the light moves of his fingers.

"Is this okay?" His voice was a whisper against Sherlock's ear, the weight of John's head on his shoulder almost uncomfortable but not quite.

It was very okay. He could even ignore the way the pattern of John's cream coloured jumper etched itself into his skin, a lone reminder of this feeling. Hugging was new to him, and he found himself wanting to understand it further now. By now, if he were high, he would be reaching the mid-point. Soon everything would begin to slow again, and then he would crash. Crash back into reality. The hugging had a constant pleasure to it, warmer than any medical syringe he could get his hands on. He was beginning to see the appeal of this, certainly enough to stay.

This was what he considered to be the weakness of humanity: connections with other people. He stiffened a little. "No touching patients, isn't that one of those rule things?" Not his best line of inquiry – much too general. John would have to touch his patients to examine them.

He couldn't see John, but he knew the man was smiling, even though the question had been terrible at best.

"I thought you, of all people, would be a rule breaker."

He smirked, "perhaps."

Did rule-breaking include anything sexual? He had John right here, closer than ever before. Should he end his ploy to have John move first? That would take time. He didn't have time. He needed something to distract him, sooner rather than later. He would even partake in the softer side of the relations, if it meant they were somewhat like what they were doing now. The only question would be emotional attachment. Compared to his previous bravado, the idea that he could just sleep with John and then throw him away, he didn't feel very confident in holding back, and he didn't trust himself to not fall prey to the chemistry of legitimate emotional attachment.

Either way, he was too late. John was already shrugging him off, moving away slowly whilst bracing Sherlock. It was cold without John, a small feeling of bliss shattering without him there anymore. John pulled him up to his feet. "You really should get some sleep. A few hours, at least."

"I'm not tired," he said, frowning.

John gave him a knowing look, one that clearly said 'I don't believe you'. He scowled, and John dutifully ignored him, prodding him towards the bedroom with conviction. He was tired, beneath layers of tightly coiled nerves that kept his body in a lethargic state without the solution of sleep. He could lie in bed for the next three hours and still feel this wired. The insomnia was unpredictable – a maverick state his body took up without fail. He doubted he could sleep and didn't particularly feel like facing the frustration that came with having his fears reasserted. He could feign sleep to some degree, but that would be boring.

"How do you usually get to sleep, when your insomnia has flared up this badly?" John asked, giving up on getting him into the bed any further, for the moment. "There must be something."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the kindles of annoyance making him snap at John. "I get high in any manner possible, dispel as much energy as I can, and, when I crash, I sleep."

John's look of determination faltered, some type of sadness overtaking him instead. "Bit not good," said John, weakly.

_Oh, what do I care!_ For him, sleep was difficult to achieve. He didn't care if, for everyone else, it was as simple as popping a few pills and feeling drowsy the next day; that was just something they could take advantage of. He had to go up before he could come down. This was what none of them would ever understand.

Sherlock clasped his hands roughly together, the tremors adding more to his vitriolic annoyance. How _weak_ his body was to constantly beg for sleep and then to viciously tremble, when it wasn't satisfied. The hugging wasn't helpful at all. It was diluted and faded completely, without John there to sustain it. He wasn't going to ask for more of the touch, even though it had helped calm his demands for cocaine. He'd known all along that the only solution to all of this was more of the drug. He could find his dealers, Jeff and Jamie, so easily. He had money, they had cocaine, and it would be the nearest thing to perfection this earth could provide him now. His best chance would be to slip out at night, when everyone else was asleep. If he took the more shady routes, and cloaked himself with his homeless network, then he should be able to avoid Mycroft's detection, for a day or two.

He was getting ahead of himself. First, he needed to make sure he had some type of syringe to inject the cocaine. He never shared needles, no matter how trustworthy the other addicts appeared. He wouldn't snort the drug either; that would damage his sense of smell. Smell was always unusually needed, during a case. Syringe first. Maybe one of his own had escaped Mycroft's notice? _Highly unlikely._ Mycroft would make sure Sherlock had nothing that would remind him of his drug usage. Mrs Hudson wouldn't, Mycroft knew she was too trusting and would have had anything of the sort removed. Would John have something? He should have a medical kit of some sort – an overdose kit, for sure.

He needed to plan this carefully. First, John would have to leave the house. Sherlock would scour his room and hopefully find something to administer the drug with. He would have to feign innocence throughout the day, leaving at night faster than Mycroft could set his thugs on him. Could he get a message out to one of his homeless to expect him? Would Mycroft have bribed any of them? If Mycroft had money for them, more money than Sherlock could offer, then he'd be betrayed in an instant. They were so lax about taking bribes, both a blessing and a curse. He _needed_ this. Why was he being withheld from the one thing he needed?

There was a sharp pinch on his inner forearm that ripped him away from his plans. John had taken him to his room, pushing him down onto the bed, before pinching him.

"Jesus Christ," he said.

The sharp sting of pain was a burst of awareness to his addled senses. Again. He'd fallen into his want for cocaine _again_. It was too big, too all consuming, to actively avoid. He was so driven towards it. He couldn't describe what being on cocaine was like, but he could remember it. He couldn't wipe away the memory of how the drug made things better. Without it, he was a wreck. His head pounded, his hands shook, and normal sleep was unachievable. He was already becoming more prone to his frustrations, and lashing out angrily seemed the more attractive alternative. It wasn't just his body that was weakened through withdrawal but his mind, too. He kept forgetting to differentiate between the withdrawal edging him towards wanting more and reality pulling him back. Like this, he knew that using again was the worse option, but that logic could be wiped away, without any warning.

He needed something, _anything_, to keep him from slipping back into that again.

Withdrawal was always a flash of painful weeks, everything blurring together in ways that meant that, when he was lucid once more, he couldn't quite tell what had occurred. This need always hit him like a tonne of bricks, the severity of it previously buried. Sherlock didn't take part in false comfort, but this was something he knew he suppressed for good reason. This need for cocaine violated him completely. All logic fled and was replaced by something so carnal, that he forgot himself at times. He couldn't stand it. Withdrawal broke him, chipping away at his mind until he was desperate. Nothing drove him towards desperation like this did. He should have stuck with heroin, with the vomiting that was real, not false phantom needs that turned his whole view upside-down.

One addictive habit after the other – a cycle of constant highs to keep him sane. It was pitiful, really.

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to rid himself from everything that had just bottled up again.

John was right to not believe him, when he said that he wasn't tired. He wanted to curl up beneath the covers and simply hide. The violin was too delicate for him to play now, his hands still quaking without any signs of stopping. His microscope was too fiddly, plus he had nothing to experiment with. Everything took up a new level of difficulty, when he wasn't in control of himself. Sleep would wipe it all away, at least for a few hours. It would be fitful at best, sporadic moments of wakefulness destroying any chance of a full cycle of sleep, but it would be better than his charlatan reality.

He moved backwards, and John immediately caught onto the fact that he wanted to sleep, bringing back the blankets and covering him with them.

"I don't need to be coddled," Sherlock said. "Remember, not my mother."

John gave him an exasperated smile, not bothering to hide the fact that he was tucking Sherlock in. "Nor handler or therapist."

He could hear John moving around the room and pulling a chair over. He watched, as John grabbed the old book he'd been correcting previously and sat down, opening it to the first page and beginning to read aloud. John added a few of his own corrections, where he noticed the mistakes, occasionally backtracking to fix something, but just working through the text in a low whisper, in general. Again, he had to focus solely on John's voice. John didn't read in deadpan; he added his own tone to the words, breathing life into the faded ink. It made it easier to concentrate on John, to figure out without opening his eyes what expression the man was pulling.

John went through three chapters, before Sherlock realised he was missing words, his mind finally dipping in and out of consciousness. By the final paragraph of the chapter, he was blissfully unaware to any of his surroundings, sleep having overcome him.

* * *

Sherlock managed a solid four hours of sleep, much to both John's pleasure and dismay. He'd been expecting the detective to wake earlier but was glad to be proved wrong. He sat by Sherlock's bed and gently smoothed his hair back, hoping the action would lull him back to sleep, rather than bring him faster out of it.

Sherlock's breathing pattern dipped deeper, the welcome respite of sleep taking him again. Sherlock didn't seem like the type of insomniac who often caught a break because, an hour and a half later, he was blearily awake. The red-rimmed eyes weren't very surprising, especially with the way Sherlock rubbed at them and muttered foully under his breath. John didn't blame him; he'd be frustrated, too. He sat down in his chair, pushing Sherlock back into a reclining position. It'd be easier for Sherlock to slip back into sleep, if he didn't get up and let the hopelessness of his insomnia take over.

"Just try for a couple more hours, okay?" John whispered, smoothing the creases of Sherlock's brow with his fingers.

Sherlock had broken cleanly through his sleep cycle, and it made him groggy, head moving up and down slowly as he tried to nod. He looked a little drugged, fumbling through uncoordinated movements, with a thick 'okay' leaving him. His hair was an utter mess, tousled in a way that was far from artful. He could tell Sherlock was only becoming more aware of his surroundings. He started recounting a few lectures he'd had to sit through, hoping the words would be enough to keep Sherlock's mind on him over anything else, but boring enough to keep him from losing that tired edge.

He could see the detective's half-lidded eyes peeking over the blanket, lazily blinking as John went into detail on how hand washing prevented the spread of infection. He was pleased, rather than insulted, when Sherlock began to ignore him, curling in on himself further and closing his eyes.

Sherlock wasn't actually asleep – he could see it in the way he changed his position, every few minutes – but he felt grateful that the man was still trying to rest.

There was no clear look of sadness on Sherlock's face, but he knew the detective was displeased with what was going on. They needed to get out, to somehow forget about the drugs and everything that came with them.

* * *

Once John left the room, Sherlock checked the alarm, which read _1p.m_. There was still a fog surrounding his mind, one that would remain through his withdrawal, but he felt remarkably better. He doubted he'd be able to maintain this feeling but decided that he'd at least take advantage of it.

Sherlock swung his feet over the edge of the bed, hissing slightly as his body protested against the cold floor. He snatched his dressing gown and draped it over himself, slowly walking into the kitchen and investigating. His movements were shy and a little timid. He distinctly remembered John taking care of him, soft words and touches ensuring that he didn't wake to a harsher reality. He wasn't often unsure of himself, bold confidence being how he operated, but this wasn't something he ever did. John should be angry and confused over when he quoted Donovan's words, questioning him about why the words had to be spoken. Instead, John was watching him carefully from the armchair, poised to get up if he needed anything.

He suspected that he should thank John for his efforts, but he didn't do such things. He hardly ever thanked, and he didn't often ask for permission, the two being almost entirely foreign to him.

"Tea?" He asked, his words still thick with sleep.

"You could do it yourself."

John was already halfway to the kitchen. "I could, but you're obviously looking for something to do."

It was calming to see John opening different cupboards, padding around in socks to collect the needed items, while the kettle boiled. John was already accustomed with where the cups and tea were, his movements fluent and more surefooted than Sherlock was feeling. There was no tension radiating from John, when by all means there should be. He waited for John to broach the topic, defensive remarks already being formed in his mind, when John turned around, mouth open.

"One sugar or two?"

He was caught off guard. Surely they were meant to discuss it in some capacity?

"One with milk, please." He threw the nicety on the end, hoping John would catch on to the fact that he was grateful enough to do so.

John smiled, and Sherlock found that he regretted it. It would be easier if John were angry. He could deal with John shouting, deal with it in a way that would get it out of both their systems and make sure the topic stayed hidden. He didn't know how to deal with John skating over all of it, focusing on the present, rather than dwelling on anything else. The topic would rise unbidden, at one point, catching him completely unawares and frustrating him. He found himself wanting to speak of it now but unwilling to break the thread of silence.

His tea was placed before him, thin coils of steam rising from the surface and spiralling away, when he blew at it. Maybe it would be wiser to ignore the topic for now? His knowledge on communicating with someone like this was lacking anyway, too many intricacies controlling the flow of words.

"Go take a shower," John said, cupping his own mug, "we're going out tonight."

Out? That made absolutely no sense. The whole purpose of him having John as a doctor was that he wouldn't have to leave for anything trivial, like group meetings, though, if that were what John was trying to get him to go to, then he would have said so. Mycroft never let him leave during withdrawal, with the temptation of the outside world and all its sinful substances being the main reason why. As soon as he left the confines of the flat, he would be one step closer to distractions that did more harm than good, in the long run. He wanted to leave, to deconstruct every single meaningless entity that passed him, but what if he lost control again? He knew every street in London – every single way to find his way directly to his dealers.

He needed to get out of here, but the thought of even the opportunity of more drugs was terrifyingly tempting.

"Mycroft?" He queried. His brother had to have a say in this.

"Has already been told and will have a car for us. Unless you prefer to walk, but then I think he'll just have us followed." John shrugged.

How did John manage to convince Mycroft to let him out? He always stayed home, during the first stage of withdrawal. The second stage, post-acute withdrawal syndrome, gave him moments without craving, ones that gave him more freedom and control. His physical symptoms faded away but the emotional intensified. Mycroft knew all of this – knew that, by letting him out, he would want more. Mycroft wouldn't just be offering a car to drive them to and fro; he'd be watching them the entire time and noting anything that caught his interest.

"Where will we be going?"

John made another disinterested move. "Dunno, Mycroft said he'd take us to a restaurant he knew you liked."

He didn't particularly like any restaurant. The ones he visited he did so because they offered him food for free, as a thank you for solving their case. There were some he visited more often than others, mainly due to the distance he'd have to spend travelling, but he hardly did so out of personal preference. He wouldn't feel the need to analyse this all, if Mycroft wasn't choosing the restaurant.

John must have read his apprehension, quickly asking if he wanted something to eat before they left later. He shook his head, and John retreated back to the armchair, this time seating himself on the opposite one. John had been seated so that he would know when Sherlock came out of his room. John had been waiting up for him. Unnecessary and mundane but, ironically enough, nice.

* * *

John took a shower after Sherlock, listening to the man retreat to his violin and play compositions he had no knowledge of. Sherlock kept regarding him with a sort of caution, one that made John feel strangely guilty. This friendship must be something Sherlock had no experience in, the caring thing even more so.

He grabbed his laptop from upstairs, shying away from Sherlock's gaze, as he typed his password.

"Your mother's name is Alice Watson?" Sherlock asked, leaning slightly to see the keyboard. John wasn't all that ready to humour his thirst for knowledge, after the man figured out his password from _across the room_.

He half-shut the lid, levelling Sherlock with his own look. "None of your business."

"There's no need to be tetchy."

Out of the two of them, _he_ was being tetchy? Sherlock may have the excuse of withdrawal on his side, but he snapped just as much as John did.

Sherlock looked affronted at his expression. "It was a simple observation." He said defensively. "Your typing is fairly slow, and I can see about half of the keyboard. You only type using your index fingers, which eliminates quite a bit of the complexity. The password was obviously going to be something familiar to you, as you are the type to invest in such sentimentality and, with most of the letters, it was fairly easy to figure out. The last name was clear – the first just a little more difficult. I expected something medical, though this isn't all too surprising."

John sighed. Sherlock was just being himself. The password itself scarcely mattered; Sherlock just wanted to know if he'd gotten the name right. He'd still be changing the damned thing, hopefully to something Sherlock couldn't figure out.

"Alice Rose Watson was my grandmother. Nobody ever guessed the password until you."

"Grandmother," Sherlock repeated, turning back to the window a moment later and bringing the violin back to the crook of his neck. He logged in and automatically went to change his password, carefully checking to make sure Sherlock wasn't looking, noting how much of a far cry Sherlock's appearance was from this morning.

Gone were the dishevelled pyjamas and roughly thrown on robe. His suit was immaculate, all crisp lines and precision, and his hair was finally back to its normal curly state. It made him look more mature, aging him in a way that just classy clothes couldn't. He looked serious and professional.

The violin sighed a long note, moving onto another slowly. There was no real melodic value, just random notes oozing out and filling the silence.

He fidgeted, as the next note clashed with the previous, an unneeded reminder of the tension between them. "Are we walking?"

Sherlock dropped his hands, holding the violin and bow loosely by his side. "At some point, yes." He began packing the violin away, fingers dexterous on the clasps of its case. "We should head down."

"Right." John shut his laptop down faster than he'd turned it on, darting over to his coat and following Sherlock down the stairs. The man had already pulled on his own coat, a long flashy thing that flared behind him as he ran down the steps. He could see the way Sherlock's hand tentatively ghosted over the doorknob, grasping it and facing the outside after days of being locked inside.

There was no denying that Sherlock simply froze, his eyes flashing from left to right faster than John could follow. Was this too much? Sometimes Harry had days where she avoided leaving the house, saying it was too arduous to be around so many people who had no idea what it was like to wake up and run to the bathroom to throw-up. _It's like they're rubbing their sobriety in my face. I just… don't like it_. He didn't think Sherlock felt that way towards John, at least not to that extent, but it might come into play now. He squeezed Sherlock's forearm, directing him towards the car Mycroft had for them.

"Come on, we'll walk later."

* * *

Sherlock clearly loved being able to see almost everything about a scene or a person. It gave him power, and it gave him a rush of pleasure very different from sex. Thinking just had a natural sort of precision to it, graceful yet so easy to blunder stupidly. It had taken time to perfect his skills, to divorce himself further from society, so that there was no bias on his part. Thinking was an investment. There was knowledge all around him, something new popping up occasionally that would make his blood sing. Crime was just the most entertaining way to channel his knowledge. He had a broad spectrum of things he knew and understood, things that some people felt he shouldn't know, and he loved it.

Mostly.

Right now he hated it. He didn't want to look out the window of the car, to see that woman on the pavement, and almost instantly know that she'd quit her job as a high school teacher due to a deep-set depression over some issue with her family. He didn't care that she was staying over with her sister, and would be looking for a job again soon, or that she would most likely have a minor meltdown that would finally encourage her to discuss her problems. He wanted one thing and that was focus.

Oh, he knew where these thoughts were going to lead. Cocaine was focus. Every individual thing held merit. Cocaine made the notes from his violin appear with complex emotion, whereas usually he could just see the sheet music, blank and offending. Cocaine made fabric infinitely interesting. The weave, the colour, the smell. All so tactile and _real_. He could see what was before him and, if he so pleased, just that. There would be no deduction; sometimes he could see what was really there and nothing else. He could look at a woman's picture and think _she's_ _marginally aesthetically pleasing_, not _her brand of make-up is cheap, though applied in a fashion that says she has experience with it. Her clothing is too tight at the bust, and she's wearing a long pendant to bring attention to the size of her breasts. She sexualises her body for attention, as the media has taught her to, ever since she was a child._

Sherlock loved seeing everything, but, right now, he wished for nothing more than being reduced to simplicity. There was an overflow of information and nothing he could do to control it.

John had somehow struck up conversation with the driver, pleasant words without any real meaning floating through the air. He didn't care for the weather either. The weather mattered when rain was washing away footprints cast in the mud, not as they drive on in warmth, hidden away from the elements. John took all the words with a kind nod, his own spilling out in return. It's so banal, such a simple thing all these people around him do.

He felt like entering the fray with a biting remark, casting the two into silence, but the little animated nods John gave were something he didn't get. John looked at him with admiration, irritation, and, increasingly often, concern. The driver couldn't see John nodding, but John did it anyway. John wasn't really expressing any emotion on his face, or any interest, but he nodded along to ensure that the person he was conversing with knew he was listening.

Or John was just making it _seem_ like he was listening, in case the driver checked their rear-view mirror. Rather pointless, really.

They were obviously being taken to Angelo's restaurant, the map to get there clear in his mind. Roads were intricate, like his mind, and followed predictable patterns. _Traffic light, turn right – one way only. _Pathways for them to commute on, to follow without question. If there was no road or path, then people were always more hesitant, a little scared to go on a path that hasn't been acknowledged or deemed safe. If there was a concrete path that was travelled safely day in, day out, people would prefer it to a beaten dirt trail. People went in circles, endless patterns that criss-crossed mindlessly, without even noticing. The circle spun round and round; nothing was ever new. People thought originality was what they wore, when even that had been recycled through years of phases and different wants.

He could always read into these things and see what the others were oblivious to.

The car stopped across from the restaurant, and he got out gratefully. He couldn't stand being ignored by John in favour of insipid conversation. He wanted attention, a reason to keep John on his mind, rather than all his overbearing thoughts. It was selfish – he didn't care.

John thanked the driver, running to his side seconds after.

"You're very quiet." John said, catching up to him as he crossed the road.

_Does John wish to know about how roads somehow translate to the various circles of humanity's originality?_

"Why? What did you expect?"

John made a thoughtful sound. "Rapid-fire information about everything we pass?"

Strange. Most people didn't appreciate it when he revealed information about others.

He opened the restaurant door to John, indicated the man should go first, and followed inside. The waiter at the door, Billy, was there, a brief smile lighting up his face at the sight of Sherlock. He accepted the window table, unwilling to be placed within the mass of murmurs at the back. It was one thing to figure out a person but another to have to listen to them.

At the sight of Angelo, Sherlock immediately realised why Mycroft had directed them to this particular restaurant.

Sherlock never dined with anyone, period. He didn't feel the need to entertain another person whilst going out himself. It meant that Angelo, who appeared to have the same romanticism trait Mike did, always hoped that Sherlock would bring a date. Sherlock didn't do friendship, something he clearly stated to Angelo, and so the man would skip over the fact that John was actually his friend and assume that they were dating. It was a clever ploy on his brother's behalf: a not-so-subtle push to help Sherlock find a way to distract himself.

Angelo boomed his name, and John looked bemusedly between the two of them, watching how Angelo clasped his arm.

"This man got me off a murder charge!" Angelo announced happily, handing them each a menu.

John looked vaguely astonished.

"This is Angelo," Sherlock explained, feeling the urge to wince at the overpowering wave of laughter from the middle table. "Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade that, at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of town housebreaking." It didn't seem to help; John still had a look of confusion.

"He cleared my name," offered Angelo pleasantly.

Internally, he sighed. "I cleared it a bit." The fact that he'd helped eclipsed that he'd only decreased the level of punishment Angelo would receive. He waited for the assumption that he and John were dating.

"Anything on the menu for you, Sherlock. Free for you and your date."

John's eyes went from his menu to Sherlock's, a little wide as they silently asked for clarification. If he corrected Angelo then John would think him disinterested, which was partially false. He was… unsure of where he stood, not disinterested. If he accepted Angelo's claims, then John would be angry for not being informed, as most people were when he did something without their permission. He pretended to have not heard the comment, folding his scarf neatly on the seat next to him and opening his menu. Something light and unprocessed would be best, salad being the option that stood out for him. John would probably go for pasta, being the dish he would be more familiar with.

Angelo clapped his hands together. "So, what'll you be having?"

They both spoke at once, and John fidgeted before repeating the word 'pasta'. Of course he'd been right. He ordered a simple garden salad, and Angelo offered them a nod, one that meant he'd processed the order. "I'll get a candle for the table too – more romantic."

Oh, Mycroft was smart to have sent them here.

This was the ideal place to form groundwork on their relations: the easiest way to go from mutual friends to shagging. He wanted John to make the first move, to direct him towards that for his own amusement, but was unsure of what signals to place. John was very different to the people he used to have sex with. They were all happy to submit to him, to have minimal extra touching and simple intercourse. That sort of a relationship with John would crash and burn. He wanted to deconstruct John's every single want through his body language, but there would have to be something more, even he knew that.

This would depend on John's conversation, though he could model that to suit what he wanted.

John wanted his deductions. Now would be a good time to start. He came a little closer to John, purposefully moving his lips closer to John's ears as he spoke. "The pair on the left are engaged, as of three weeks ago. They're planning a trip to somewhere warmer to celebrate. His parents have been deceased for a few years now, but she comes from a large, accepting family." He ducked even closer, and John went very still. "If you're guessing why their hair is so messy, then yes, you're right, they did shag before coming here."

It was glorious to see lust marked across John's face. The starting point was there, if only John just followed the points of conversation.

Angelo made his appearance again, plates balanced in a way that only came with coordination and practise. Billy was behind him, helping carry Angelo's choice of wine and the candle. Alcohol was too unpredictable for him to actively enjoy, but the buzz was pleasant, certainly pleasant enough to indulge tonight. John was eager to eat and took a quick, methodical bite. He sipped at the wine, as John did so, waiting for some sort of conversation to come from him.

"How'd you know about them?" John jerked his head towards the couple, fingers still clenched around cutlery.

If only John could see what he did.

"There are five brochures on their table, all of them with a destination that is set for more tropical weather at this time of year. She, naturally, feels the need to speak loudly, a trait that many people from large families pick up, because they have to fight to be heard. A minute ago, when they were discussing their families, he began to show signs of discomfort, until she reassured him that it was all fine. As for the proposal, I was here when it happened."

John laughed. "That's amazing, but you cheated."

He waved his hand through the air. "Luck and coincidence rolled into one." Sherlock stabbed his fork through the salad, chewing slowly, noting how John watched. "Yes?"

"Do you eat healthy for the benefits, or because it goes through your system easier?"

John mightn't be able to take facts and spin them into someone's story like he could, but that didn't mean his intelligence was to be ignored. He was getting Sherlock far faster than most others did, understanding the salient points which influenced most other things. He staggered his consumption of food after a case, often having to replenish days' worth of food without gorging, but otherwise a meal a day was sufficient. John had realised that he took drugs out of boredom, obviously noted Sherlock's hesitancy in touching, and was beginning to see his relationship with food.

"I never know when I'll need to think, and food only slows me down."

John's forehead creased in worry. "Food also sustains you, keeps you going. It's not good to have an unhealthy attitude towards food. I can see why doctors might misdiagnose you, when it comes to it."

Sherlock scoffed, forcing his fork through more leaves of salad this time, and brought the fork up to his mouth pointedly. So far John was only providing a qualified outside eye. The moment he began to force Sherlock to eat, he would be far less rational in his response. John was a doctor – this issue obviously wouldn't rest. Occasionally, when he wasn't providing too much attention to his surroundings, he would eat without realising. Hopefully John wouldn't notice and take advantage of that, though it would be commendable for the doctor to take action.

"So, what do you do, other than solve cases?"

Sherlock's life mostly revolved around the cases. He played the violin, sulked, and got high. Sometimes he threw some sort of experimentation into the mix, or went out and travelled London to make sure his mental map didn't atrophy. He read and researched any areas required, opting for another's advice every now and then. John knew most of this already. Sherlock mostly distracted himself from outside tedium, or continuously built up his knowledge.

Now there was John: a new, unpredictable hobby. Life might just become a tad boring, if John left.

The thought troubled him. "You've seen most of it already."

He excused himself to the bathroom. He'd already known that he appreciated John, finding the man both interesting and annoying, but for him to think that life without John might be lonely was a leap, one he didn't think he was comfortable in making. John had gone from an unwanted addition to his withdrawal, to being his friend, rapidly. He didn't want John for just the distraction of sex now, but for his company and warmth, too. He felt _affection_ towards John. His guise of being a Sociopath was crumbling, and the thought was simultaneously novel and distinctly uncomfortable.

* * *

**AN:** I've created a tumblr (the url is tapdancingapples, creative, no?) where I'll be posting both Sherlock and anything I use as a reference/inspiration for this fic, so you're welcome to go and check that out C: Thank you for all the continued support for this fic, I just want to hug all of you 3


	10. Chapter 9

So sorry about the wait for this chapter ;-; I had a huge writers block, lost track of time, and was just generally busy with exams. I'm sure you'll all recognise this, though I have worked on changing the plot from the original and I'm working on my own twists for the next chapter~ Beta'd by _gbheart _C:

* * *

_**Chapter 9 -** A Study In Pink_

* * *

John remembered that, when he was roughly seven years old, he wanted to go on a date with pretty Casey from his class. The idea was silly, and he didn't even know what a date was, so he dutifully went to Harry for her splendid advice, explaining the situation as best he could and smartly confirming that he no longer felt the opposite gender to be infectious.

_Well, Johnny. _She'd begun, adopting a wise and aged air. _When you go on a date, you have to like the person you're going with, it'll be a bit awkward, and there's always some fancy food and drink. If you do well, and I know you will, _she winked at him, _then you get to shag 'em! _

In hindsight, even as an innocent seven year old, he should've realised something was wrong when Harry simply avoided explaining what 'shag' meant, maniacally grinning as she did so. It was unfortunate for her that he ended up going to their mother and proudly announcing 'I'm going to shag Casey!' The exasperated lecture that Harry went through as a consequence of that was bitterly amusing, his memory of the situation blurred, but still fond, even now.

It was a peculiar memory, one he hadn't recalled for a while, but it seemed to ring true. Sherlock was attractive, even if his abrasive personality detracted from that slightly, and they had a certain aptitude for falling into awkward silences. Pasta and salad weren't exactly the 'fanciest' of dishes, but they were on the right track with the wine. He wasn't going to jump ahead of himself on the last part, though. The fact that Sherlock had so far ignored each time someone referred to them as a couple was bemusing. Sherlock was nothing if not opinionated and headstrong, so the silence was just plain odd.

He poked listlessly at his pasta, awaiting Sherlock's return from the bathroom like an abandoned puppy. He was getting free food because of the man, and it seemed rude to indulge himself without Sherlock.

Without really thinking about it, he turned to observing all of the other patrons in the restaurant, attempting to deconstruct various details of their beings and weave them together like Sherlock did. In a way, it was something he did as a doctor. He had to look at a patient and find all their symptoms, see if any of them correlated with past diseases, or something that could be inherited via genes, and then make his diagnoses. He found himself sinking into his doctor mind-set instead of the one he imagined Sherlock's to be, watching as a man took a small antihistamine tablet before digging into a dessert topped with nuts. What else was there about the man? He was dressed up slightly, inevitably balding, and currently grinning at what his friend was saying. There was a patch of creeping red on his neck, eczema that the antihistamine counteracted, but, even with all that, John couldn't loop any of these random facts into a viable explanation of who the man was.

Sherlock appeared at the back of the restaurant, catching his gaze on the man and swooping back down next to his ear, once he'd sat down. "Therapist: look at his tie and stance."

The tie, a solid light blue, told him barely anything at all. There was some sort of dirt smudged on it but nothing else truly noteworthy. The man's posture was equally devoid of anything for John to grab onto.

"It'll become clearer once the friend begins discussing his recent issues at work." Sherlock took a quick bite of his food, elaborating on his statement a moment later. "Watch for the way he moves from a casual and relaxed position to something more upright and impersonal. It's an ingrained behavioural move – one he hardly even registers anymore."

John waited, only having to take two sips from his wine before the man shifted. It was obvious, now that it had been pointed out to him. The man lost some of his loose carelessness from before, his actions seeming more neutral. On his own, if he had been observing the pair, then he would have thought nothing of the change. A tense topic, perhaps, nothing more. It simply wouldn't occur to him that the man's posture was a reflection of his work.

He turned back to Sherlock, grinning as he said, "That's bloody brilliant."

Sherlock regarded him blankly, lips tightening a fraction before he acknowledged John's praise with a delicate tilt of his head. John felt like he had to write the words down, immortalise them with paper and pen, before flashing the page every time Sherlock did something commendable. It wasn't his intention to stroke Sherlock's ego – the man knew he was intelligent and effectively utilised that – but he did want Sherlock to understand that John _cared_. The wary, defensive way Sherlock responded to praise was beginning to bother him. Sherlock didn't outright reject compliments, a stereotypical quality he was beginning to find in young teenage girls, but he didn't appear to take them in either.

He picked at his food.

"Do you ever go out with anyone?" John asked. It was apparent that Sherlock did not seem to have any friends outside of him, but he still wanted to know the exact scope of Sherlock's lack of socialising.

"I've taken Cranium out with me a few times, though that isn't what you're asking."

"I'm a fill in for a skull?" He demanded, amused beneath faux indignation. It wasn't difficult to imagine Sherlock in a public restaurant with Cranium, horrified patrons watching them. It did prove his theory that Sherlock had dabbled in the physical side of relationships, rather than the more intimate and emotional one, but that only brought his thoughts back to when Sherlock had stood over him, harshly saying '_I've never had sex with affection.' _

He ignored that thought. People said stupid things when they were angry, and it wasn't hard to figure out that Sherlock treated sex with an experimental touch, the same that he'd extended to John a few times.

John went through some more of his pasta, pondering how to phrase his next line of questioning without coming across as too terse. Sherlock regarded him curiously before turning his gaze to outside the window, the passing traffic capturing him for only a moment.

"He assumes we're dating because I've never brought a living human with me here." Sherlock shrugged lightly, "Or a dead one. Necrophilia never has held my interest." John spluttered, food abruptly going the wrong way, but Sherlock ignored him. "I've also made it particularly clear that friendship is not something I partake in, so a date would be the next most logical conclusion to come to, especially once you factor in our body language."

He washed down the pasta he'd choked on with some wine, throat tight and uncomfortable. For what he feared wouldn't be the last time, he wondered if Sherlock had some sort of a filter for what he said. As perceptive as it was for Sherlock to have realised part of what he wanted to ask, it still wasn't the whole answer he was looking for.

Again, he cleared his throat. "You don't date, then?"

"What do you consider the necessary criteria to be?"

For a single, outlandish moment, he was tempted to use Harry's definition. Instead, he fell upon something a little less out there. "It's when two people who like each other go out and have fun."

Sherlock crinkled his brow, fingers tapping out a barely-there rhythm on the table, a physical sign that he was somewhat uncomfortable. "Vague description at best," he noted quietly. "I've never been in that exact scenario, though I have dined with two now-convicted murderers as a part of my work. Sharing a meal with a murderer is far less entertaining than would be expected." He took in John's surprised expression with delicate neutrality.

Slowly, John nodded, absorbing the fact that Sherlock had been that close to violent killers. Sherlock sounded like an awful mix between an adrenaline junkie, someone with a death wish, and an arrogant sod. He somehow doubted that Sherlock would have informed the police that he was going on a bloody _date_ with a killer, instead relying on his own instinct and charm to keep him alive.

He realised Sherlock was waiting for him to speak, the rhythm of his fingers turning into an uneven drum.

"I thought you would've been the type to experiment."

Sherlock stared at him. "I experimented with sex. Relationships were too –"

"Affectionate?" John supplied.

"Time consuming, arduous, constant."

He wasn't sure if the lack of response to his supplication meant something. Did Sherlock agree with him, or had he intentionally not place 'affectionate' in his own list of reasons?

They lapsed into another one of their common silences, the background filled with the buzz of mutual chatter and cutlery clinking together. Sherlock seemed sort of lazy, when it came to social interaction that wasn't strictly necessary or beneficial. Generally, this was an area most people would excel in. People weren't utterly pointless – stupid, at times, yes – but it was natural to form relationships, particularly strong ones, throughout life.

As strange as it was for someone to often avoid relations with other people, it wasn't bad, he supposed. Some people avoided sex – others avoided large social gatherings. In truth, it was just because Sherlock seemed so comfortable with being isolated, yet simultaneously starved of contact and praise, that John felt the need to push at this. He'd seen the way Sherlock acted, and how that would alienate him in many situations, so maybe this was just something he'd never attempted due to previous shortcomings.

Or maybe John was just being hopeful based on minimal evidence. Either way, Sherlock wasn't going to break the silence.

He coughed and Sherlock's gaze flicked from the window to his face. It was a silent '_go on, you have my attention_' gesture, but, whereas someone else might lean forward or turn their body, Sherlock stayed perfectly still. It made him look stiff and practised. If it weren't for the straight back and confidence etched into his every pore, he'd look like a frightened wild animal.

"It's fine if you don't do relationships."

"I know it's fine." Sherlock retorted, a hint of confusion marring his face.

Now that John considered it, the lack of bodily response from Sherlock also made him harder to read. He'd done the same thing when Anthea had appeared in their doorway, pushing the box of items inside with what could only be described as bored sass. By appearing callous and rigid, almost above it all, in a sense, Sherlock pushed himself away from others even further. It was somewhat the same thing the therapist did: burying any outwards response for the gift of stoicism.

"I'm just saying, it's _all_ fine."

The composure broke and Sherlock shifted in his chair, uncharacteristically quiet at the words. Oddly enough, he hoped for Angelo to pop out suddenly and interrupt whatever had transpired, but instead it was the 'ding!' of Sherlock's phone.

It was peculiar, hearing only one side of a conversation and attempting to figure out what was being said. He could tell that they were being offered another case, which was blindingly obvious the moment Lestrade was mentioned. A brief grin flitted across Sherlock's face, followed by a quick command for the scene to be left _exactly_ as it was.

The call ended without anything remotely like a goodbye from Sherlock, who already had his scarf bundled around his neck. "Come on, John." He said brightly, and bounded out.

John looked at the table setting, his own plate polished clean of food, while Sherlock's was still over half full. Angelo did say it was free, but it didn't feel right to leave without paying.

He left with a backwards glance, waiting for someone to call him out on his vice, but was only met with Sherlock's sudden presence by his side.

"Mycroft's car," Sherlock waved his hand in the direction they were walking. "Faster, and the driver won't feel apprehensive about coming so close to a crime scene."

The car was parked at the end of the street. He greeted the driver, but Sherlock ignored them, sitting with his body tilted towards the window, apparently lost in thought as he stared out over London. He waited a few minutes, hoping to not interrupt Sherlock if something as vital as possibly getting a killer off the streets was on his mind, but he did need to ask a few things. After all, John had work in the morning, and knew that if this ate considerably into the minimum seven hours of sleep he needed, then he'd look like utter shit tomorrow. It was hardly a confidence booster if the doctor looked worse than the patient - much like a personal trainer who was erring on the unhealthy side with their weight.

Plus, it just wasn't professional to fall asleep at work.

"Ask away," Sherlock drawled a minute later, beginning to text as he did so.

The question of why the driver knew where the crime scene was before him was on his lips, but he quickly put that down to Mycroft and his otherworldly knowledge of all things concerning Sherlock.

Other than that, what he really wanted to know was what the crime was about. He'd done his fair share of hospital rotations, visited the morgue, and watched plenty of terrible explicit medical drama, but that didn't mean that he was necessarily desensitised towards the dead. He was generally fine with the sight of blood, and he hadn't even squirmed when he'd seen someone with broken bone poking through skin, but there was a fine distinction between alive and dead that John couldn't ignore. He knew some cases the Yard took on were gory, but the possibility that he might be seeing one of those cases was unsettling in the extreme.

Sherlock was staring at him, as though he'd accidentally breathed life into his thoughts, perhaps through some unconscious action that displayed his fear without tact.

Slightly shakily he explained himself. "I'm nervous about the chance of dealing with a body."

Sherlock made an enlightened huff. "You fear having an intense response to a cadaver that has been attacked, as you have never been given the opportunity to see it in first person. As a doctor, it would also make sense for you to have an emotional response towards someone who has been through pain."

He nodded. Conversation, in part, was easier when the other person simply understood.

"That level of mutilation doesn't often occur, you'll find, unless you're dealing with a particularly vicious murderer. They've finally caught on that a copious quantity of blood tends to leave a solid trail of evidence and enquiries to follow through with."

John smiled uneasily. That was true, he supposed. People knew where major arteries were located, where to shove a knife to cause either blinding pain or death, but often seemed to miscalculate when it came to the sheer amount of blood that would flow from such a wound. In films, he was usually fronted with wounds that had so much blood spurting that it resembled a morbid fountain, or so little that he had to marvel at how false the rate of blood coagulation was.

Still, that didn't tell him if there was a body or not, nor, if there was a body, what state it would be in.

"What're you going to be investigating?"

"Fourth victim of the recent suicide killer," Sherlock murmured.

The niggling worry left him, replaced with a soft sort of sadness for the victims. He'd read about it in the papers, once or twice, but had assumed the killer had been caught after seeing no more articles. What sort of clues would someone like this leave behind? There had been three victims, last he'd heard, and yet the police had had no real luck pinning down any substantial leads. He had no doubts that Sherlock would find something the police had missed, but this was a serial killer, not a jilted lover. This case had a stronger undercurrent of danger – this was someone who felt no compunctions over killing again, and probably would if they weren't stopped.

Sherlock, naturally, seemed confident. He didn't appear to have the same internal struggle, but John couldn't be sure. The car pulled to a slow stop, and he willed his fear away. This was a great opportunity for him as a doctor, especially if he ever sought to further his career in medicine by going into trauma. Not everyone was given the chance to see a cadaver outside of a morgue.

Sherlock swept out of the car, and John followed, hoping that the killer hadn't gone through a wild epiphany where he decided to mutilate those he killed.

* * *

The scene looked semi-hectic, as police lights flashed in an uncoordinated cycle of bright light. A few officers scurried around, sticking to inside the perimeter and occasionally bring standard issue walkie-talkies to their lips. Lestrade and most of the other officers were already inside, trying to puzzle through what Sherlock knew was a fascinating mystery.

The lack of attention given to the perimeter made getting into the scene horrendously simple. If he felt like exerting more effort, which was pointless, he could sneak the entire way in without catching anyone's attention. John cast him a few uncertain glances, nervous about their unnoticed presence and the fact that he would be faced with a cadaver soon, but otherwise calmly confident.

A loud "Hey, Freak!" sounded, followed by the tell-tale slap of Donovan's heels clicking across the tarmac.

"Sally," he sighed, allowing his contempt and disdain at her presence be known. "We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Instantly, she fired a succinct "why?" at him.

"I was invited."

"_Why_?"

"I think he wants me to take a look." He sarcastically snapped back.

Donovan raised her brows at him. "Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

_When you do think, that is, _he snapped internally, once more smelling an all too masculine deodorant on her. Just because Anderson's wife was away didn't mean that anyone else with sense wouldn't notice that the two of them were engaging in regular intercourse.

She sidestepped in front of them, blocking them before the doorway and pointedly looking at John. "And who's this?"

His retort, a spiteful jab at the sexual antics she'd participated in with Anderson, fell silent as John cut over him, lips pulled into a falsely placid smile. "Doctor John Watson. Would you prefer it if I wait out here, or can we just get on with it?"

John wasn't angry, not in the way he had been when he'd stormed out of 221B to visit his sister, but Donovan appeared to understand the finality of the words, letting them pass with a silent glare. He attempted to catch John's expression, to understand what exactly had caused him to stand against Donovan's petty attempts to halt them, but was met with a blank face and juxtaposing clenched fists.

He left it, for now. There would be plenty of opportunities to deconstruct the nuances of John's behaviour, now that they lived together. The case was his focal interest, and he wanted to rush into it and let it consume him, from the inside out, until it was solved and his mind decayed back into a viscid boredom.

Inside, the house had a thick, musty air, which complemented the decrepit feel nicely. Dust formed its own thin carpet along the floorboards, and mould was slowly creeping along damp corners. The staircase creaked urgently, and it only added more to the atmosphere. Fluorescent lighting highlighted all of these aspects, but gave him no clues as to who the killer was. All it told him was that whoever had caused these 'murder suicides' was well versed in the art of picking an abandoned area to leave a corpse, which wasn't too difficult a task if someone applied some general common sense, logic, and minor research.

The room on the left was already filled with forensic gear and equipment. Anderson stood there, face pinched and seething as he pointed at the set-up. "It's a crime scene; I don't want it contaminated."

Which was laughable, at best. Anderson would adore finding Sherlock's DNA on a body, especially if it was viable enough to frame him as a suspect. He brushed past Anderson, quickly taking a pair of latex gloves and snapping them on. Silently, he revelled in the feeling of the gloves pressing on his skin, in the implied meaning that he was finally going to have something to do, that the case was indeed consuming him. This _freedom_ to be here, when previously he had never stepped foot on a crime scene during withdrawal, was gorgeous.

He impatiently waited for John to don his own gear before ascending the stairs, paying special attention to the steps and the lower section of the wall. There were no visible scuff marks, so the victim must have taken the stairs themselves. Why, though? What reason did the victims have to walk towards their own death? The newspaper reports had mentioned no suicidal tendencies from them, yet they didn't struggle in any way that left physical evidence.

Some sort of interference from the killer was a logical explanation, but that only opened up a whole new world of unanswered questions.

Lestrade met them at the second floor, tired eyes and stiff shoulders suggesting yet another lonely night spent on the sofa. He spared Sherlock a glance, awkward and tense, but Sherlock ignored him. Whatever petty ethics and morals dictated Lestrade's need to apologise for his mistrust in Sherlock's deductions was unneeded. The act of being allowed on such a delicate case was an adequate enough display of remorse.

"Upstairs," Lestrade sighed. "Her name's Jennifer Wilkins, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long - some kids found her." He paused, giving John a once over before deeming his presence at the scene acceptable. "I can give you two minutes max."

"May need more."

If the credit cards were left, then the crime wasn't motivated out of a need for identity or money. That whittled down the reasons for the killings significantly. There was no link to be made between the victims, at least not yet, but he had previously observed patterns where an obscure connection existed beneath layers of random events. He could admire a killer with this level of maintained effort in preserving their innocence, but senseless murder was nothing compared to a killer who strived to pick the perfect victim.

Next to him, John was flexing his fingers in a predictable pattern, his sudden nerves bleeding into unconscious physical actions. Maybe, once this was solved, it would be wise to indulge John with a few trips to the morgue. He'd have the opportunity to dissolve his fear and learn to identify time and cause of death with a smaller degree of inaccuracy.

"Just in here," Lestrade mumbled, pointing the way to a derelict room.

The most frustratingly prominent feature of the room was the woman's pink themed clothing, the intensity of the colour causing him to falter for a moment. The colour was so salient when compared to the faded greys framing her fallen body, like a beacon that kept continuously catching his attention. _Pink – breast cancer, femininity, homosexuality, delirium tremens elephant euphemism, children, and the dianthus genus_. An erratic burst of thought centred on one of the most obvious clues in the room. The colour was eye-catching, and the clothes in general were aesthetically pleasing and presentable. Too pretentious a colour for tame commerce-centred work, yet ideal for the rapid-paced media world.

On her right leg, spanning from the heel to the middle of her calf, he could see mud stains soaked into the sheer material of her stockings. The dirty solution had been picked up by the wheels of her suitcase and unintentionally deposited as evidence. Lestrade must have already had the suitcase removed to be searched, possibly as a test to see if Sherlock would notice. It seemed a bit above Lestrade to do so, but he was allied with Mycroft, so it wasn't too rash a leap to make. His brother undoubtedly wanted to know how much withdrawal was affecting with his ability to deduce a scene.

In a fit of annoyance, mostly at the fact that the suitcase had likely already been pawed through by some incompetent, he spitefully told the room's silent occupants to shut up.

Lestrade's head snapped up, eyes confused. "I didn't say anything."

The mere presence and existence of Lestrade meant that he was speaking, providing even more mindless background information for Sherlock to absorb. Sometimes it was helpful, but the buzz of _second fight with his wife this month. She's becoming increasingly antsy about his constant work hours and will use it as an excuse for once he realises she is having an affair _left an imprint inside his mind, as useless as his still-reeling thoughts on pink.

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

He stepped slowly towards the word carved into the ground, noting the small flakes of chipped nail polish lost in the gentle slopes of each letter. He could see that she was left-handed, though that didn't explain why she had written the word '_Rache_'. Why write rache over revenge? Revenge in itself made no sense. There was no connection between the victims, nothing that implied a killer was working in a predictable, angry pattern.

Not only that, but why give rache a capital _r_, if it needed more effort to scratch into the floor? That said the word was a proper noun and required the capital. The only thing that fit the context was Rachel. The position of her hand – leaned past the _e_, as though she aimed to carve one final letter – supported this.

He knelt, running his hands down her coat. She'd been in rain recently but, upon inspecting her umbrella, it was clear that the rain had been coupled with strong winds. Her coat was too saturated to suggest that she'd quickly dashed through the rain, maybe to grab something or get into her taxi, so the wind must have made it impractical to use an umbrella at all. She was also meticulous with her appearance – the umbrella would only have been forgone if absolutely necessary.

They hadn't had that particular combination of weather in their area of London, though he would have to consult a site on today's weather patterns to be sure.

His pocket magnifying glass – one of his mother's better gifts – highlighted the clean gleam in her jewellery, except for the wedding ring, which had a duller quality than the rest. She prided herself in the effort put towards maintaining her other jewellery's clean standard, yet the wedding ring, which should hold the most importance, was dirty. There were standard scuffs in the metal, having cumulated from at least ten years of being worn, but that couldn't hide the fact that she was in an unhappy marriage.

It took one smooth tug to remove the ring and, not too surprisingly, the interior was polished smooth and clean from regular removal.

So, a serial adulteress, much like Lestrade's wife.

He grinned. Why had this woman been chosen? Serial killers needed a connection; it made the hunt of finding a victim more fun. For many killers, enjoying the process was more significant than the actual killing. The answer, tantalisingly out of his reach, was only half the fun too. The process of piecing irregular clues together finally made good use of his mind, finally gave him purpose. Perhaps it wasn't right to compare himself to his own findings on serial killers, but that was a link he could easily establish and confirm the presence of.

Now the only challenge was proving his deductions' worth. It wouldn't do to have another misunderstanding with Lestrade, even if it would be technically his own fault for consulting with a withdrawing addict. The result of this case would likely determine whether or not he'd be given more in the nearby future, and he _knew_ he needed more. The steady wash of intellectual challenge and pleasure was heady. It wouldn't bode well for him if he was forced back into the clutches of 221B without any promise of detective work. It was borderline cruel to be stripped of his addictions and then offered a hit of something new and exciting.

A dependency on The Work was more manageable, anyway. The Work beckoned him with predictable cries of murder and theft, amongst other things, but that was something his mind found acceptable to heel to. Drugs stripped control from him entirely, the traumatic whispers of bliss and white noise eventually driving him to the pitiful state he was in now. John left him in a perpetual state of confusion where simple cause and effect reactions did not seem to apply, as a new set of rules were applied and constantly rewritten.

"Got anything?" Lestrade piped up hopefully.

For a moment, he was silent, revelling in the delicacy of the moment, of how his mind had sped up to understand the case, yet slowed down to let it be his primary focus. It wasn't often that he was so aware of his surroundings but so calm the same time.

It didn't last long, quickly replaced by that itch to hurdle through his deductions at a breakneck pace so he could find the next puzzle piece, but it gave him enough time to collect himself.

* * *

The dynamic between Sherlock and Greg was fascinating. While John knew that Sherlock disregarded most things that assisted in making the golden rules of social conduct, around Greg it was even more apparent. He fluctuated between being utterly still and suddenly whirling around, as did his speech. It was either pure silence or a weird sort of Q&A session between the pair. John almost felt like asking 'Have you ever thrown him out of a scene?' because _honestly_. Greg hardly even blinked an eye when Sherlock slammed the door on one of the other officers, a harsh comment slipping from him as he viciously scrolled on his phone.

It wasn't that Greg was letting Sherlock walk all over the scene, a domineering force that showed no signs of relenting any time soon, but more the sort of give-and-take where Sherlock had enough respect for Greg to speak with him, not just at him.

He'd forgotten his apprehension towards the body in the flurry of activity, initially feeling uneasy over how Greg and Sherlock would respond to each other after that mishap with the last case. There was a moment where Greg had edged closer to the detective, possibly to express remorse over his distrust, but Sherlock didn't deign to pay him any heed. It left Greg looking chastened but no longer nervous.

Sherlock didn't appear to notice the stunned silence left in his wake, as he conjured answers and information out of thin air. How could a couple of prods to the woman's coat and a look at her jewellery tell Sherlock that she'd come from Cardiff? He could tell she was fairly well off by her appearance, and could easily pick out that she was left-handed, but the rest was brand new information to him.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?" Sherlock jumped in, tone professional and without inflection, startling him back into the present.

"Of the message?" Why ask for his opinion? He hadn't even known what rache meant before all this.

"Of the body – you're a medical man."

"No." Greg said firmly. "He's a GP, Sherlock. He isn't even _trained_ in this field of –"

"You'd be surprised how wide a field of knowledge a GP can amass through their years of studying. Your team won't work with me either, due to my apparently unorthodox and unfounded methods."

John was stunned. Yes, he'd found an interest in studying things like rigor mortis at uni, but that didn't mean he had any idea how to conduct himself in this situation. He dealt with those who were ill and likely to benefit from his assistance, not the dead.

"I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here –"

"Yes, because you need me."

A hush fell over the room, harsh and unforgiving, before softly Greg spoke. "Yes, I do. God help me." He left, ordering those outside the room to give them a few minutes.

Sherlock waved him apathetically towards the body, kneeling beside the head.

"The blind support is nice and all, but Greg's right when he said I haven't been trained in anything like this." He said, pursing his lips in a thoughtful manner, as he knelt opposite of Sherlock.

Christ, there was a body separating them. He felt his stomach turn and wondered if he was going to be nauseous, but the feeling settled into an unhappy whisper. _Just a cadaver, really. Nothing to be afraid of._

"Consider this the beginning of your training."

The body, for no reason other than being lifeless, was horribly daunting. This wasn't a normal procedure where he'd ask a few questions, take out his stethoscope and then tell the patient to take a few deep breaths. He was being asked to find a cause of death, not something simple like bacteria running wild in someone's system. He couldn't exactly say 'Well, clearly she wasn't stabbed or shot, since there's no blood,' yet that was one of his primary thoughts.

"Smell her breath," Sherlock murmured, as Greg stepped back in. John was infinitely thankful for the small instruction.

He pushed the hair away from her face and leaned in, feeling oddly relieved when he caught the acrid stench of vomit. This he could work with. Anaphylaxis, seizures, drug overdose, food poisoning, and a few other things could easily cause this. Vomiting was a quick way for the body to purge itself of too much food, react to something unpleasant, and even indicate the presence of a virus in the body. It was easy enough to rule out anaphylaxis, seeing as there wasn't any abnormal swelling on her face and neck, and food poisoning just didn't make sense in the context of a killing.

Loosely, he held her wrist, inspecting for anything that could say she struggled or fought back. He'd been in enough trivial fights as a teenager to know how knuckles bruised and skin split from impact, but there was nothing of the sort on her dainty hand.

He sat back on his haunches. "Uh, asphyxiation, probably. She passed out and choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her – could've been a seizure, or possibly drugs."

There was no response on Sherlock's face at the mention of drugs, but he still looked. Instead, Sherlock stared at him, head cocked and lips brushing his fingers. Slightly belatedly John realised that having him look over the body was also an assessment of his skill. Sherlock knew how to identify these things – he would be a piss poor detective if he didn't – and yet it was John doing the analysis.

"Two minutes, Sherlock. I'll need anything you've got."

Like a stretched rubber band releasing its potential energy, Sherlock bounced up to his feet, hand outstretched and hovering over the body. The deductions, once vocalised and given their logical backbone, were a mixture of inventiveness, attentiveness, and slight madness. The connections between each fact and the truth were tenuous and fickle - John thought she could remove her wedding ring since her work was messy, but was then disproved by the fact that she didn't work with her hands. The perfect manicure glared in his face. No one with long nails worked in dirty conditions, the dirt would get beneath the nail and that was a potential health hazard. So obvious, now that he considered it.

"Clearly not one lover," Sherlock continued from his previous monologue, "she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant," he uttered, almost missing that minute break in Sherlock's step.

Another prompt from Greg had Sherlock back on track, moving about and rapidly gesticulating when it was apparent they didn't understand. Sherlock, when put on a case, attacked it with the same single mindedness that came when he focussed on the violin or fell into the recesses of his mind. He wasn't angry when Sherlock bounded out of the room, almost flying down the staircase in his hurry, but he was a little miffed.

The shouting match between Sherlock and Greg, courtesy of the fact that Sherlock was a floor below them, ended with a particularly fierce shout of the word "PINK!" and an anticlimactic lack of movement from the police, as Sherlock ran out the building.

Knowing that Mycroft would be rather displeased if he didn't keep a watchful eye over the detective, he sent Sherlock a quick text.

**(7:48pm) (John Watson) -**  
_Please tell me you haven't just gone off to try and catch a killer  
on your own._

**(7:48pm) (Sherlock Holmes) -**  
_Outside. Hurry up. Mycroft's people are going to babysit me if you  
don't re-establish your presence. –SH  
_  
**(7:48pm) (John Watson) -**  
_2 minutes._

He ignored the looks he was being given, the borderline pity coming from Sally, and went back into the room with forensic equipment, slipping off the blue suit and gloves. The tingling in his fingers, a series of gentle pricks reminiscent of pins-and-needles, remained - a silent reminder that even though examining a body for the first time had been downright terrifying, it had also been a worthy rush of adrenaline. It was easy to remember the glide of cool skin against his own, of a cadaver that had shut down due to foreign bodies coursing through its system, and he felt grateful to be back out into the open, even when Sherlock promptly told him they had to go search some skips.

* * *

**AN:** Again, sorry for the wait. Thank you for continuing to support the story, though. I'll try my best to get the next chapter out as fast as I can :)


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